


Safe In My Own Skin

by Niamh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh/pseuds/Niamh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two broken souls, searching for peace and a safe haven. William returns to the one place he swore he'd never return to find someone in more need of peace than him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> [A/N: The genesis for this story was actually twofold. Quite a while back, I saw a challenge/request posted on Darker Spike (livejournal community) for a Spangel fic wherein Angel was Spike’s basketball coach and he was a HS student (basically student/teacher kink). Well, I got to thinking about it and basically I decided first of all, Spike/William wouldn’t ever play basketball, and so I had to alter that aspect. Which got me altering far more of it. I couldn’t wrap my head around writing Spangel with hearts and flowers, or anything resembling love, so instead I focused on the non-con aspects of a student/teacher relationship. Thus was borne the initial idea. However, all that being said, this story is not Spangel in it’s focus. It is however, very dark and not all so happy. So if you can’t handle angst or dark subjects, click the button and leave this story now. Believe me, I won’t be insulted. If you choose to stay, be warned, this is not going to be pretty. This story contains non-consensual sex, sexual abuse of minors, talk of suicide, murder and just about all the other dark stuff you can think of and maybe don’t want to read. Again, I won’t be insulted if you can’t deal with it; however, if you think you can and then decide to flame me for the emotions and/or other visions this story invokes, be advised, I warned you, and therefore on your head be it. My thanks to Spikeslovebite for her stellar beta skills and to Addie Logan for the handholding and support while I wrote this. And, for telling me to go ahead and post it. Titles and quotes are as attributed. And the title, which also generated some of the plot ideas, comes from the Honestly OK, by Dido. Disclaimers in full force and effect, much like all other fanfiction. I own nothing but the plot. And the pain.]

  
  
  
  
**_First_**  
  
  
 ** _I just want to feel safe in my own skin,_**  
 ** _I just want to be happy again_**  
 ** _I just want to feel deep in my own world_**  
 ** _But I'm so lonely_**  
 ** _I don't even want to be with myself anymore_**  
  
 ** _On a different day,_**  
 ** _if I was safe in my own skin,_**  
 ** _then I wouldn't feel lost and_**  
 ** _so frightened_**  
 ** _But this is today and I'm lost in my own skin_**  
 ** _And I'm so lonely_**  
 ** _I don't even want to be with myself anymore_**  
  
 ** _I just want to feel safe in my own skin,_**  
 ** _I just want to be happy again._**  
  
  
  
  
 _ **London, present day**_  
  
  
It was quiet.  
  
That’s what woke her. No shuffle or rustle of sheets beside her, no limbs entwining with her own, no arms curling around her, anchoring them together. No heartbeat thumping steadily under her ear.  
  
The quiet drove her from their bed.   
  
Her feet padded softly on the rug, the rough wool scratching at equally rough callouses and bare skin.  
  
Down the darkened hallway, down the stairs, skipping over the creaky ones out of habit, hoping to keep her wakened presence a secret for just a little while longer. The dark frightened her, made her feel small and insignificant, bringing back unwanted memories of before.  
  
Before he’d come.  
  
Before he’d saved her from hell.  
  
She could feel his restless presence in the house, calling to her. She couldn’t sleep without him . . . hadn’t ever been able to.  
  
Didn’t want to.  
  
But he couldn’t sleep at all.  
  
Haunted by his own demons; by all that he’d been through, what she’d suffered, and what he’d been unable to prevent. Haunted by his inability to save another. . .   
  
Some nights he paced the floors, driven to movement by his perceived failures. Other nights he wrote, pouring out his pain, frustration, and anger onto blank, empty pages.  
  
There were the nights he took her with tender savagery, touched her with such reverence and awe that they both wept. Then others when he used and abused her, bruising her flesh with the force of his own need and desperation.  
  
Tonight wasn’t any of those nights, though. Tonight was one of the rarest nights of all. Something must have triggered the memories; something set him off, made the wounds bleed again.  
  
He was sitting in shadow, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlight shining in the big picture window. Smoke curled around his head, rising up to dissipate against the pale ceiling. A dark button down shirt was resting on his shoulders, hanging loosely at his sides. The cigarette caught between his fingers glowed in the dark, dying when he crushed it out.  
  
She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the door, her eyes drinking him in. Tears welled in her eyes, though she forcibly blinked them away. He was in so much pain. . . More pain than she could ease, because it wasn’t physical. The emotional scars ran too deep, much like her own. They were a pair, broken, battered and barely able to hold themselves together.  
  
And yet, they did.  
  
Held each other when the internal demons raged, too much to control; when the pain and memories swamped them, drowning them in despair.  
  
Flame flared in the darkness, bringing his face into sharp relief, catching on his white blond hair, revealing his scarred eyebrow. She loved his face, loved watching the play of emotions in his oh-so-expressive eyes, whether darkened with lust or brimming with love, every emotion was there to witness. Truth was she loved him. Loved him for being so vulnerable, for being so filled with pain, so willing to shoulder her burden in addition to his own.  
  
Loved him, because he’d saved her. Every night since the first she’d laid eyes on him, he’d saved her. Yet he refused to believe it. And she loved him all the more for it.  
  
He’d saved her.  
  
Now it was time for her to save him.  
  
“Spike?” Her voice quavered, breaking on the last syllable of his name, coming out in a breathless whisper. “Spike,” she tried again, hoping for a stronger sound this time. “Come back to bed.”  
  
He’d swivelled his head to stare at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in this light. For long moments she thought she’d imagined her words, until he finally acknowledged her standing there. “Kitten. . .”  
  
“Please, Spike, come back to bed.” He shook his head, taking another drag on the cigarette. On silent feet she crossed the distance between them, her hand reaching for the cigarette before he could move it from his lips. She put it out, brushing her hand over his cheek. “C’mon, Spike. I need you to hold me.”  
  
Easier to couch it in terms of her need for him, not his need for her. They both needed each other. No one else understood. . . No one else knew the depths of what each had lived through. They had only each other.   
  
He slowly got to his feet, concern for her in his every movement. “You okay, pet?”  
  
“I can’t sleep without you.”  
  
With her admission, she knew where his thoughts led him. _I can’t sleep without you because I’m afraid. . . afraid of my own nightmares . . ._ Afraid, despite knowing the monster that haunted them both was safely locked away.  
  
She tugged on his hand, pulling him out of the room, down the darkened hallway. Spike pulled her to a stop, his other hand reaching out to hold her against his chest. “Kitten? You okay?”  
  
Her ear over his thumping heart, her arms circled round his waist while his held her safe, she kissed his bare chest. Lifting dark haunted green eyes to his, she whispered, “I am now.”  
  
“All right, sweets, it’s all right.” He leaned down, his lips brushing against her forehead, then lower, to kiss away the teardrops pooling in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got you, Buffy. I’m here.”  
  
“Don’t leave me, please.”  
  
“Never will, kitten, never.”  
  
They held each other in the dark, two broken, battered souls, and somehow, they found peace.  
  
Peace that wasn’t shattered when he lifted her in his arms, carrying her slight form up the stairs, and to the bed they shared. The peace deepened when he rolled into the bed beside her, his arms easing around her, his breath wafting over her disheveled hair.   
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too, kitten.”  
  
Though she didn’t want to ask, she knew she had to, because they couldn’t stay at peace unless the last of the demons were slain. “What happened?”  
  
He sighed, rolling onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. “Nothing.”  
  
She knew better than to push, knew he would start talking on his own.   
  
“Rupert rang earlier.” She waited him out, content just to listen to his voice. “Got word from a contact in the States. Seems the bastard got shanked.”  
  
Buffy flinched, not expecting that bit of news at all. Despite her earlier vow to wait, she couldn’t help blurting out, “What happened?”  
  
“Not sure. Guess someone found out what he was in for, what he’d done.” He rolled away from her, facing the door. Buffy followed his movements, slipping her arm under his and laying soft kisses on his back. “Don’t much care, either.”  
  
“Neither do I.” He laced their fingers together, squeezing her smaller fingers in sympathy.   
  
“Thing is, pet, any mention of him. . .” His voice died away, and Buffy nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.   
  
“Yeah. I know.” She snuggled closer, worming her other arm around him. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?” She felt his head shift, angling up and over his shoulder to look down at her.   
  
“Everything. For not telling me right away. For . . this. For saving me.” Buffy kissed his shoulder again, laying her head there against his strong muscles.  
  
“Didn’t save you, pet. He still got you.”   
  
“Yeah, you did.” He rolled back again, tucking her under his arm, their faces close. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her hand brushing across his face. “You do, all the time. You got me out, you cared when no one else did. If you hadn’t come. . . I’d be . . . I wouldn’t be here right now.”  
  
Images of that night, the screams, the blood, the fear pulsed through her and Buffy shivered in his arms. “God, Spike, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t saved me.”  
  
He sat up in a rush, holding her tighter against his wildly thumping heart. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. You would have made it. You’re stronger than that.”  
  
“No, Spike. He would have killed me.” She clutched at him, fingers flexing convulsively around his arms. “He would have. . . and I would have died just like she did.”  
  
They both shuddered, remembered what they’d both suffered at the hands of the same man. He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, holding her close. “Don’t leave me, baby.”  
  
“I won’t, Spike.”  
  
Silence flooded their bedroom, memories held at bay springing to life.   
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years prior_**  
  
  
He hated this town.   
  
Hated it with his entire being, every last fiber of himself.   
  
Hadn’t always been that way, though. At first he’d thought it was a decent enough place. After all, it was where his uncle had settled, where his mother had brought them to live after his own father died. It was supposed to have been a haven for them, someplace that didn’t carry the memories of London and all the death that had surrounded them there.  
  
That safe haven never truly materialized.  
  
He’d come to this town, shy, quiet, and unassuming. He’d fled two years later, battered, broken, bruised and determined to never set foot in this place again.  
  
So why was he back?   
  
It was a question he’d asked himself numerous times over the last few days. He didn’t really know why. Oh, the excuse he used was because he needed closure. To put part that of his past behind him so he could move on, so he could heal the broken parts of himself. His therapist recommended it.   
  
A deep sigh ripped from his lungs, and he inhaled the clean air of the place he thought of as his own personal hell and fought every instinct he had to turn and leave this god-forsaken town.  
  
Instead he halted his big DeSoto beside the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign and stared down the street. _Best get this over with. . . . lay these demons to rest._  
  
He put the car into gear and headed straight for the school, the site of his rude awakening into adulthood.  
  
Spike drove up to the front, letting the car idle at the curb.  
  
He hadn’t realized school might be in session, hadn’t given it a second thought. Hundreds of teenagers, all California tanned and pretty, milled about the grounds. He wondered if any of them knew about the viper in their midst. . .   
  
A trio of teens crossed in front of the DeSoto, two girls and a boy, their appearance oddly out of place for southern California. One of the girls, a tiny little blond, sported a huge oversized sweater, reaching down past her fingers, and had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked around, eyes darting here and there, and suddenly his radar went haywire. _There’s something not right there. . ._  
  
His suspicion was immediately confirmed when the object of nearly every restless night – every waking nightmare – crossed his line of sight, following the girl. Saliva pooled in his mouth as the hulking demon grabbed at her arm, pulling her away from the others.  
  
He squinted into the bright sunlight, trying to make out what was happening, but the light flared, blocking his vision. The moment it cleared they were gone, disappearing into thin air.  
  
He’d almost convinced his brain that he imagined the whole scene when the girl’s companions turned around to head back into the school, fear and worry etched on their young faces.   
  
Spike could feel the sweat leaching from his pores, his chest heaving in quick pants and forced himself to take huge, calming breaths. _He’s still fucking here. . . Goddamned bastard is still here._  
  
Scrubbing at suddenly teary eyes, Spike put the DeSoto into gear and peeled away from the curb, unknowingly drawing stares from the teenagers. But he knew it was impossible to run from his memories. They were with him, hiding behind every action, every thought, waiting for the right moment to swamp him, drown him in despair.   
  
He didn’t want to be here in this hellhole.   
  
Wanted to be anywhere but here.  
  
Hadn’t thought about confronting . . .   
  
_Him_.   
  
The man who’d molested him.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
  
Instead of staying with his uncle Rupert, Spike opted to stay in the local hotel. Less chance of having to deal with unwanted questions, or forced to be emotionally strong when he felt open and exposed.  
  
Easier to ignore family and emotional ties. That way left only pain and more unanswered questions.  
  
He wanted to do this quickly, cleanly.  
  
Wanted to be able to leave when the pain and ache became too much. When it was easier to run than stay.  
  
He stared at the walls of the hotel room, forcing his mind to be blank, desperately forcing away the memories clamoring to break free. Frantically his mind fought the images, shoving them out with almost physical force. And yet. . .   
  
_And yet. . ._   
  
Seeing the bastard brought it all to the surface, raw and aching. His skin felt tight, like he might burst from it with the next heartbeat, while his insides shriveled and shrank. His heart was thumping wildly, his breathing coming too fast. Panic was setting in, and he knew the longer he sat there, fighting the memories, the worse off he’d be.   
  
The door slammed shut behind him, his boots thudding quietly on the carpeted floor. _Need to get out, need to move. . . need to do something._  
  
His feet led him once more past the location of his downfall, the site of his deflowering and . . . Spike stared at the empty field, for once not fighting the memories of the first months in Sunnydale. Life was good, almost too good. He should have known hell was going to be unleashed. School was easy, easier than he’d expected, the kids open and willing to welcome the young, shy British boy. His mother had suggested he try out for the football team, figuring he’d shine for once in the athletic arena. She hadn’t been wrong. He was built for it, having played endlessly in London, easily making the varsity team on the first try.  
  
He’d been fourteen.  
  
Impossibly shy and stuttering around girls, his brain freezing and tongue-tying on him, unable to communicate intelligently.   
  
The field was just a field, green grass unevenly cut, goal posts lonely sentinels against the backdrop of the setting sun. Not blood drenched reminders of being left lonely and bleeding, too sore and sick to move, too hurt to admit what had happened.  
  
Just a field. Just goal posts.  
  
He was William then, when he’d first walked onto this field. Shy, lonely William.  
  
Somewhere still inside of him, William still whimpered and cried in the dark, while Spike stood guard, ever vigilant, ever watchful.  
  
Dropping his spent cigarette to the ground, Spike stomped on it, turning away from the field.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Hands, grasping, holding, shaping. . . possessing. Tightening on his cock, squeezing, then releasing. Whispered threats, ‘This is mine, _boyo_. . . no one touches you but me’ circled round in his head as he whirled around seeking escape. Hot hands, hurting, holding him down, blood dripping down his leg, pain . . . _pain_.  
  
Doubling over, vomiting everything he’d eaten in the last few hours, Spike’s belly clenched against the memories that had woken him from a restless sleep. Head hanging over the toilet bowl, he panted for air. Long, long moments he hung his head, letting the tears drip down his cheeks, plopping almost noiselessly into the remains of his meal.   
  
Spike straightened slowly, feeling far older than his twenty six years, his body cramped and shaking with fear and fatigue. Savagely wiping away the tears, he stepped into the cold shower, seeking some form of ease. The cold stung, piercing shards of sanity pelting his skin.  
  
Tremors wracked his frame, making him unsteady on his own feet and he slumped down, huddling against the shower wall, curled in on himself. Hiding from his own pain. Hiding from himself. The tears came, harsh and unforgiving, and he rode them out, knowing eventually his body would give way, give up and collapse from the strain.  
  
Sleep stole over him, exhausted, mindless sleep and he moved slowly, collapsing on the bed, soaking the sheets with the frozen tears his entire body wept.   
  
He slept. . . . and did not dream.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
California sunshine was different than sunshine anywhere else in the world. Had a different feel, different quality to it. Brassy, bright and intrusive.   
  
He hated it.  
  
He sat in the shadows of the ridiculously named Espresso Pump, a once gas station that had now been converted – for the greater good – into a coffee shop. Red-rimmed and bloodshot blue eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and though his pose was indolent, Spike felt anything but. His every nerve was on edge, eyes tracking the populace as they traveled to and fro, scurrying about their day.  
  
The coffee he’d ordered sat slowly cooling, the overspill leaving a ring around the bottom, and he deliberately tipped the cup to trace more of it on the glass. He sat in the far corner, much like he always did out in public, quietly paranoid about having someone at his back, and so he saw her the second she stepped into view.   
  
She was just as fragile looking, just as tiny as he’d thought. There was a doe-like quality, a wild thing barely able to stand the company of humans in her bearing, a vulnerability about her that spoke to him. His eyes tracked her as she darted swiftly to a chair two tables away from him, where the other girl sat, obviously waiting for her.  
  
Though he wanted to leave, felt the presence of every single patron in the barely empty shop closing in on him, he couldn’t. Didn’t dare move. She was breathlessly spilling out details of something, leaning in closely to the redhead, when she abruptly stopped, ducking her head. A hush fell over the two girls and he swore he could smell the scent of her tears.   
  
A fist clenched around his heart, and his lungs caught, holding the breath suspended, and as a soft sob broke from her, his lungs collapsed, exploding in a whoosh of sound.  
  
Spike sat there, tears welling in his own eyes as the chair scraped back, her narrow shoulders hunching. Her breathing hitched and broke and she fled the place, tearing away pieces of his already wounded flesh.  
  
Stunned and confused, half of him wanting to chase after her and somehow ease the pain he knew she carried; the other half of him wondering why her, of all people. . . Spike sat there, unable to move.  
  
She was just a girl. . . a tiny, slip of a thing. . . and yet something deep surged within him just seeing her.  
  
 _Just a girl. . ._  
  
Spike surged to his feet, needing to escape the confines of the small coffee shop.  
  
  
 @~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
  
“What are you thinking?” Her hand swept over his cheek, her thumb ghosting over his lips.  
  
“Spike?”  
  
“Jus’ m’ries.” He stared up at the ceiling, his hand making idle patterns on her bare back. “Thinkin’ bout what brought us here.”  
  
Buffy rolled onto her side, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, her leg thrown over his narrow hips. “Not all of the memories were bad.” She tapped his lips when he stated to speak, begging him not to for a moment. “Most of them were bad, I know. But there were some. . . Willow and Xander.”   
  
He held her closer, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. She hugged him tighter, holding on, anchoring them together. “Sometimes I miss them, you know?”  
  
He fought the urge to speak, to remind her they couldn’t go back, didn’t dare return, when she spoke again. “Maybe they could come here, someday.”  
  
“Kitten. . .” He didn’t need to say it, didn’t need to remind her they shouldn’t let anyone know where they were. There was still the matter of her being underage when he’d spirited her out of the country, both her and the baby.   
  
A deep sigh from her shook both their bodies, and he could feel the tears pooling in her eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about that . . . about _him_ anymore. Please, help me forget.”  
  
He flipped them over, so she was tucked beneath him, his hips settling naturally in the cradle created by hers. His calloused hands brushed the hair off her face, his fathomless eyes staring into hers, telling her without words how much he needed her. Buffy caught his face in her hands, tracing lines and shadows.   
  
 “Love you, kitten, so fuckin’ much.”  
  
“I know.” Her throat ached with unshed tears, the fist around her heart easing only minimally. “I love you. . . so much.”  
  
She smiled at him, without it reaching her haunted hazel eyes. The same haunted look stared back at her, swimming in deep sapphire and she kissed his face, tasting the saltiness of his own tears. “Oh, Spike, you break my heart.”  
  
His whisper of, “Why’s that, baby?” melted into her skin.   
  
“Because I don’t think you get how much I really do love you. You saved me. . . from the monster.” More feather soft kisses caressed his face and Spike curled his hand over her fragile body, cupping her tender breast. “And I love you. . . God, how I love you.”  
  
Her legs curved over his, arching her hips up against his hard, heavy cock. Despite all the bruises, all the pain, all the darkness surrounding this act for both of them, they always sought connection, always touched. Spike settled himself inside her, thrusting slowly, almost cautiously. This was for them. . . no reminders of . . . him.   
  
Spike rolled to his side, hooking his arm under her hips, keeping them locked together. His arm pillowed her, fingers tangling in her long hair. Other fingers splayed low, at the small of her back, soothing away faint scars. He didn’t speak, couldn’t for the lump and rawness in his throat, and he made no move to hide his tears from her.  
  
Buffy leaned into him, her nipples brushing his, her fingers tracing lines and ridges, smoothing away the pain etched deeply. “I love you.”  
  
He did smile then, leaning down to capture her lips with his. “I love you too. ‘D be lost without you.”  
  
This time her smile reached her eyes and the band around his heart eased. “Nah. I’m the one who’d be lost.”   
  
Internal muscles flexed around his erection and Spike ground hard into her. “Gonna stay like this all night, yeah?”  
  
“Mmmmmhhhmmm. Can we?”  
  
“Anythin’ you want, baby. Anythin’ at all.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Steadily, slowly, they surged together, holding on, holding in. . . holding the tender, fragile hearts they both owned.  
  
And for once, in the dark, it was enough.  
  
It was enough.  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Second

**_Second_**  
  
 ** _Crystal tears_**  
 ** _battered innocent flesh_**  
 ** _ache of heaven_**  
 ** _rage of hell_**  
 ** _unwanted angel_**  
 ** _unspeakable violation_**  
 ** _bruised bleeding ripped and torn_**  
 ** _lambent eyes clouded with rage_**  
 ** _silver shards of ice filled pain_**  
 ** _snarling sneering_**  
 ** _gasping shame_**  
 ** _desecrated angel_**  
 ** _bleeding life away_**  
 ** _Niamh O’Connor, 1997_**  
  
  
  
  
 _ **Sunnydale, two years prior**_  
  
  
He woke, sweating heavily, his breath gusting in heaving pants, every inch of him shaking with repressed fears.  Shakily he slumped, his heart thumping wildly, nearly visible against the barrier of his skin.  Running a hand through his hair, he cursed his therapist.  
  
 _Don’t want to be here._  
  
Wasn’t ready for this.    
  
Hadn’t been prepared for the sight and sound of this place.    
  
This pit of hell that would haunt him until he died.  
  
He wondered, not for the first time, if that little girl felt the same way.  And somehow, knew that she did.  
  
It was her eyes, those haunted, doe-big eyes that told her secrets.  
  
Her eyes had followed him into sleep. . .    
  
Spike got up, moving on wobbly legs to stare out onto the dark streets.    
  
He couldn’t go back to sleep, knew oblivion waited elsewhere tonight.  
  
It was early. . .    
  
Sleep wasn’t coming.  
  
Neither was peace, not for him.  Not this night.    
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
He loved this time of night.    
  
No one about, no prying eyes.  No need to be other than himself.  
  
The soft thump of his boots on pavement soothed him, eased away the fear he’d been carrying.  
  
He could still be William in this time, still the shy, unassuming boy he sheltered with the punk persona.  It was good to know that part of him still existed, some good and clean part of him. . . though it had been William who’d borne the pain.  
  
Spike had been formed from the pain.    
  
William had fled, shedding tears and skin, refusing to answer why he wanted away, and from the ashes of the burning pain, Spike had emerged.    
  
And saved William.  
  
Something moved in the darkness ahead of him and he stilled, blending into the shadows. He crept closer, every sense heightened.    
  
A sob broke in the early morning darkness, the cry of a wounded, broken animal.    
  
Waning moonlight illuminated spun gold hair and a tiny, huddled form.    
  
Spike stood still, frozen by her tears.  
  
Dropping down to his haunches, he spoke softly, his words and tone meant to soothe, to ease her somewhat.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
Her turn now to freeze, those wounded eyes filled with tears, piercing him to the core.  
  
She didn’t speak, fear closing her throat, pain swamping her senses.  
      
He tried again, holding his hands out for her to take.  “M’name’s Will.”  
  
Minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell how long she stared at him, her eyes searching for some sign. . . something he recognized all too well.  
  
Knew that look.  Had seen it staring back at him in the mirror, too many times to count.  
  
Knew enough, too, not to promise anything.  She wouldn’t believe him anyway.  
  
Spike waited her out, knowing, sooner or later, the pain would win out and she’d collapse.  Every line of muscle screamed pain, her wounded eyes speaking far more eloquently than words.    
  
So he waited, in silence, until she spoke.  
  
“I can’t move.”  
  
Laced with pain and unshed tears, she let go, reaching for him in the only way she could, hoping this complete stranger would be there to catch her.  Spike crawled over to her, his hands gentle.  
  
“Okay, kitten.  I’m gonna help you now.”  
                      
And the tears fell, dropping helplessly from her eyes, coursing down bruised skin.  
  
She nodded once, warily watching him move closer.  
  
    @~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Pain laced her breathing, gasping, hitching in her throat as she fought to get air through shattered and torn bones.  Pain lanced her movements, forcing her to creep slowly away, crab-walking like someone aged and ancient.  
  
Heart pain.  
  
Beyond tears, beyond any feeling at all, she crawled when she could no longer walk, pulling herself forward on already abused skin.  
  
Wounded flesh that would eventually heal.  
  
Squishy, suspicious noises emerged with every exhalation, moisture pooling in her mouth.  _Could just choke on it. . . could just close my eyes and lay down here._  
  
Wet grass smell covered the other scents, ones she’d give her freedom to forget.  Blood, vomit. . . .  Spunk.  She hated it.  Hated. . . _him_.  
  
Hated her, too.  
  
Hated everyone.  Even herself.  
  
She wiggled her jaw, feeling for loose teeth and licking her swollen, split lips.  Tight skin pulled and stretched, opening up almost closed lacerations, fresh blood spilling to the surface.  
  
Her legs gave out, crumpling beneath her, fresh pain arcing, sending dancing silver lights to cloud her blurred vision.    
  
 _Not far enough. . .  Never far enough._  
  
Her head dropped to the dirt, tears and blood mixing with earth.  _Why?  Why me?_  
  
 _Why can’t she stop him?_  
  
 _Does she hate me too?_  
  
 _Not my fault. . . not mine.  He’s wrong.   Him.  He’s the sick fuck. . ._   
  
Faint noises reached her ears, and she scrabbled away, desperate for the safety of the low rose bushes just inches away. . .  The sounds came closer, and her heart pounded, thumping madly for escape.  _Don’t. . . please don’t. . ._   
  
Flinching away from the noises, she whimpered her terror into the earth, not believing any miracle she prayed for would happen.   
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
She nearly laughed at the voice in her head, knowing it wasn’t real.  No one would be out, no one would care. . .  And no one would ask that of her.  No one ever had.  
  
Barely able to roll to her side, Buffy lifted her head, eyes fixing on the hunched form.  His face was hidden in darkness, features blurred by her pain.  Whimpers died in her throat, driven away by the sweeping fear.    
  
He inched closer, dropping one knee down and shifting until he was bathed in moonlight.   
  
Her eyes caught his, and she didn’t breathe, didn’t dare move.  His hand reached out to her, stopping short of touching.    
  
That’s all he did.   
  
Waited for her to move, to acknowledge him, the only other words uttered were his name.   She wanted to trust this moment was real, wanted to believe he was no more than he seemed, but. . .    
  
How could she trust a complete stranger when her own sister left her to the wolf?  
  
 _How. . ._ Trust wasn’t something she understood.  There was no trust.  _None._  
  
Trust betrayed and beat, trust wounded and seared.    
  
And yet he waited. . . . pale hand outstretched like a silent statute, asking for nothing.  
  
The fingertips of her good hand dug into the earth, dislodging small tuffets of grass, fisting the dirt between shaky fingers.  She wanted to reach for him.  Wanted so badly to try. . . to hope. . . but her body was frozen, pain and fear making movement impossible.    
  
His head tilted, releasing the shadows from his eyes, revealing his true self.   
  
Daring a deep breath, Buffy surrendered.  
  
“I can’t move.”  
  
His hands caught her as she fell, crumpling raggedly onto the grass.    
  
The warmth of his hands unlocked the tears she’d fought against shedding.    
  
For this moment, she was safe.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
He was used to the stares, the whispers.  The pointed looks, which were worse than the stares.  Spike slouched down in the molded plastic chair, wondering why he was still hanging around.  It wasn’t like they’d tell him about her anyway.  
  
He didn’t even know her name.  
  
She had fainted in his arms, halfway to the hospital.  
  
Her body shook and shuddered, pain and terror taking their toll.  Her skin was soft. . .  Almost baby soft, and her blood had leached into his, filling him with her essence.  He could still smell her. . . blood and something sweet, filling his nostrils.  Closing his eyes, he held onto the scent, trapping it in his memory.  
  
“You the guy who brought the girl in?”  
  
The voice was firm, deep and Spike reluctantly opened his blurry eyes to see a tall, bald, black man staring down at him.  
  
“Wanna tell me about it?”  
  
Oh, he knew _this_. . .  This drill. Hard not to recognize a cop, even in plainclothes, when you’ve stepped one too many times over the line. . . .   Spike nodded, not giving anything away.  
  
Not budging, not moving, the cop waited. . .  And waited, just watching Spike.  
  
“Found her.  Crying and beaten.  Picked her up and carried her here.”  
  
Silence filled the noisy waiting room, the wail of an arriving ambulance sounded far off, remote, as remote as the stillness inside him.  His breath moved in and out of his chest, head buzzing from sleeplessness.   
  
Still they waited. . .  For more or nothing else, Spike wasn’t sure. Expecting, any moment the cool snap of circular metal tightening around his wrists, the rush of memorized repetitive words advising to stay silent. . . always silent.  
  
His eyes drifted closed again, fatigue creeping in through the gaps of worry, robbing him of care about his companion.  
  
Hours or minutes passed, he never knew which, and the wait stretched between them, unspoken like the accusations waiting to be hurled.    
  
“Detective?”  
  
A new voice shattered the quiet, the worried tones leaching through his fatigue.  Spike struggled to sit up, struggled to open his eyes and focus.  
  
Whispers hushed out of averted faces, eyes sneaking peaks at the lone black spot . . .   
  
Hard not to understand the concern, to ache for a moment . . . for her, when he couldn’t for himself.    
She’d run. . .  Looking for a way out, trying to outrun a monster.  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
More hard plastic chairs, more harsh, blinding lights.  Only this time, no one stared, no one even looked.  The open office was empty, devoid of presence save for the two of them.  Spike looked around, idly noting the haphazard filing systems, the grainy greyish-green walls, anything to avoid looking at the man looking at him.  
  
“Where did you find her?”  
  
“Just inside the park.  By the roses.”  
  
An almost non-existent eyebrow raised up, and Spike fought the snicker of amusement when the action rippled across the bald head.  
  
“She say anything?”  
  
He shook his head in answer, then told him what he could remember.  They’d barely exchanged ten words, most of them coming from him.  She’d been too scared, too wounded.  “Is she gonna be okay?”  
  
The answer was a long time in coming, while the detective studied him.  Spike stared back, unblinking in the face of official disapproval.  A sigh reluctantly emerged from his companion and he was the first one to look away.  “Yeah.  She’s got a couple of broken ribs and her left arm is broken.”  
  
There were other injuries, but he wasn’t going to mention those – if he was guilty, he’d already know.  If he wasn’t then it hardly mattered.  Girl had enough to worry about without a complete stranger knowing her business.  
  
Spike’s eyes drifted closed, gratitude and prayers to long forgotten gods circling in his head.  “Good.”  
  
They were quiet again, both men lost in thought.  “You don’t remember me.”  
  
“Huh?  Wha?”  
  
“Charles Gunn,” he thumped his hand against his chest, and kept speaking when Spike didn’t acknowledge him, “We were in three classes together in junior year.  You just up and disappeared though.”  
  
“Had my reasons.”  _None I’m going to tell you, mate. . ._ “Who is she?”  
  
“No ID on her and she’s still unconscious.”  Gunn pushed over a picture of her battered face.  “You got any ideas?”  
  
“No.”  He didn’t elaborate further, years of secret-keeping sealing his lips.    
  
Another, deeper sigh.  “All right, man.  You’re free to go.  But leave me a number, just in case.”  
  
Didn’t need to be told why.  DNA was a bitch for criminals, but there was nothing about this he needed to hide.  His cell number rattled out and Spike surged to his feet.    
  
He was gone before the other man could finish writing.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
      
  
  
  
Some gnawing emotion ate away, churning his gut.  Unclear thoughts swirled in his head, none clear, none coherent.    
  
 _She . . ._ his mind kept looping back to thoughts of her, the feel of her slight weight in his arms.  Her blood still covered his skin, her scent woven into his.  He couldn’t move without sensing her, hovering on the edge of his awareness.  Just out of his reach.  
  
Sleep wasn’t going to come any time before dawn.  
  
He wouldn’t even bother trying.  
  
Instead, he retraced his steps, moving toward places he’d rather not ever see again.  
  
Rose petals drifted down, washing away the coppery scent.  Spike closed his fist on them, crushing their pale pink blooms in his blood-stained hands.    
  
This was where he’d found her, amid crushed roses washed pale under silvery moonlight.   
   
Dew fixed the petals around his fingers, curling like baby kisses over his calloused skin.  He gathered them in his palms, lifting them up like an offering.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Something tickled her nose.  Some soft, barely felt touch teased at her skin, hesitant, wary.  Beeps and whirs of soft machinery pinged, disturbing her troubled sleep.  
  
Pain, radiating outward from disparate parts of her, converged in her belly, contracting her heart.  She whimpered, unbroken hand clutching for something.  
  
Spike watched her, still and silent in the deeper shadows of her room.  
  
She stirred, eyes fluttering and he retreated further.     
  
A groan stole from her lips and he was gone, leaving her to imagine he’d been there.  
  
Buffy slowly opened her eyes, cowering against the bed.  
  
Roses, wild and untamed, lay on the tray.    
  
Petals covered the bed.  
  
Memories of a deep voice, pale hands and black leather repeated in her mind.    
  
 _He’d saved her._    
  
She didn’t know how, or why. . . or who he was.  But he’d saved her.  
  
Despite the pain and fear, she was glad someone had cared. . .   
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
  
Hoarse, desperate and high-pitched, piercing cries broke the deep silence, shaking both of them from their slumber.  Wails of abject heartbreak, cries that had too long gone unanswered.  Spike woke, shaking, his own heart racing.  
  
Slipping silently from the bed, he slid into discarded jeans and made his way toward the cries.    
  
There, thrashing, wailing, face scrunched in absolute terror, was the other reason he wanted them to stay hidden.  
  
 _Poor little mite. . ._   
  
Barely two years and he’d seen far too much.    
  
Things no infant should ever see or have to live through.  
  
Red-faced, eyes closed, mouth gaping wide in horrible screams.    
  
“Shhhh, it’s all right, little man.”  
  
The lie tripped easily from his lips, though he paid it no mind.  Little Connor didn’t even know he was lying – nor did he care.  He wanted one thing – the one thing he’d never, ever be able to have again.  
  
“Moooooommmmmmmmmyyyyyyyy!”  
  
The cry hurt his ears – but his heart wept to hear it.  Nothing he, nor Buffy could do.    
  
Except hold him, love him, and protect him.    
  
Spike swept the boy up in his arms, cradling him against his bare chest.  Snot, tears, and  blood mixed together on his bare skin, tiny pounding fists beating the mess.    
  
“Want my mommy!  Mommy!”  
  
The words were garbled, interwoven with hiccuped screeching cries, and still the boy did not wake.    
His voice was low, even-toned, designed to soothe and wake the boy gently.  Tears of his own mixed with the baby’s and Spike paced the floor, rocking side to side.    
  
Her hand came round his shoulder, cupping the baby’s head, her other arm slung around his waist.  “Sing to him.  Sometimes it helps.”  
  
It did.  
  
Within minutes, Connor’s cries died off, his head thumping heavily against Spike’s collarbone.  Buffy’s hand joined his, rubbing over the small spine, both of them whispering soft nonsense.  
  
The quiet, when it came stole in on a sigh expelled from the baby’s mouth.  His thumb crept its way to his lips, his other fragile hand wrapped around Spike’s ear, stroking it gently, like a prized blanket.  
  
Larks, heralding daybreak, sent their harsh cries out into the wavering darkness, while inside the dark, nearly empty house, three broken souls held each other tightly.  
  
Spike dropped kisses on their heads, holding them both into the safety of his arms.  
  
Daylight broke in through the window and he hugged them tighter.  
  
The night demons they all battled hadn’t won this round.  
  
He hoped, despite having little for himself, that this was the harbinger of something new.  
  
Surcease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is one of my own, written several years ago.


	3. Third

**_Third_**  
  
 ** _For the angels who inhabit this town,_**  
 ** _although their shape constantly changes,_**  
 ** _each night we leave some cold potatoes_**  
 ** _and a bowl of milk on the windowsill._**  
 ** _Usually they inhabit heaven where,_**  
 ** _by the way, no tears are allowed._**  
 ** _They push the moon around_**  
 ** _like a boiled yam._**  
 ** _The Milky Way is their hen_**  
 ** _with her many children._**  
 ** _When it is night the cows lie down_**  
 ** _but the moon, that big bull,_**  
 ** _stands up._**  
  
 ** _However, there is a locked room up there_**  
 ** _with an iron door that can't be opened._**  
 ** _It has all your bad dreams in it._**  
 ** _It is hell._**  
 ** _Some say the devil locks the door_**  
 ** _from the inside._**  
 ** _Some say the angels lock it from the outside._**  
 ** _The people inside have no water_**  
 ** _and are never allowed to touch._**  
 ** _They crack like macadam._**  
 ** _They are mute._**  
 ** _They do not cry help_**  
 ** _except inside where their hearts are covered with grubs._**  
  
 ** _I would like to unlock that door,_**  
 ** _turn the rusty key_**  
 ** _and hold each fallen one in my arms_**  
 ** _but I cannot, I cannot._**  
 ** _I can only sit here on earth_**  
 ** _at my place at the table._**  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years prior_**  
  
  
She didn’t know how long she’d been there, staring at pale greenish walls, listening to the monitors beep and whir around her.  Someone had brought her food earlier, after cleaning up her flowers, though she’d clutched a handful of broken petals in her good fist.  Buffy clung to them, unsure whether she’d imagined the bright blue eyes intently staring into her own.  
  
Her arm throbbed.  
  
Her brain though, was numb.    
  
The split lip and bruises dotting her torso ached, every time she expelled a breath.  
  
“Miss?”  
  
A tall bald man stepped into her line of sight and Buffy shrank back.  
  
“I’m sorry.  Is this better?”  
  
He stepped away, moving the chair to the end of her bed.  Far enough away to let her feel safe, close enough to hear her whispered answers.  
  
“I’m Detective Gunn.”  
  
His wait for her to give him her name extended, growing like an awkward weed.    
  
“Can you. . .” He started, then stopped, shaking his head.  “Will you tell me what happened?”  
  
Tears welled up despite her reluctance to speak.  He had a kind face, warm and dark, eyes that looked concerned.    
  
Fear kept her silent.  
  
“Do you remember?”  
  
 _Too much!_ Her mind screamed, soundless words careening about in her head.  _I remember everything._  
  
 _I don’t want to remember._  
  
Buffy looked away, her eyes landing on the bunch of wild roses someone had put in a plastic water jug.  
  
 _Not a dream, then._  
  
Somehow she knew that he’d brought them.  No one else would.  
  
His eyes followed hers, hoping to find an answer in the lost expression in her eyes.  
  
“Do you know the man who brought you here?”  
  
Her eyes shifted, then dark lashes closed over the brilliant green.  “No.”  
  
“His name is William Pratt.”  There was a very long pause before he spoke again.  “Is he the one that did this to you?”  
  
Lashes lifted, stark despair flooding the wounded jade of her eyes.  “No.”  
  
“Will you tell me who you are?”  
  
“Buffy.”  
  
Gunn closed his eyes, slowly rising to his feet.  “Get some rest, Buffy.  I’ll be back later.”  
  
Instead of resting, she focused on the flowers, wondering why he’d brought them.  
  
And wondering why she couldn’t forget his face.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
His sleep had been, for once, almost dreamless.    
  
Instead of visions of his past haunting his slumber, he’d been surrounded by luminous green eyes and soft, almost elfin features.  
  
She’d appeared so small, huddled on the sterile sheets, tubes and wires attached to her baby-soft skin.    
  
Skin that had borne the marks of someone’s less than gentle hands.  
  
Yet when he’d dreamed of her, she’d been whole, unmarked.  
  
 _Safe._  
  
Spike looked down at his hands.  He knew, without knowing her name, whose hands had been the ones hurting her.  
  
Part of him wanted to go – find him – and retaliate.  
  
To face his own demon to protect her.  
  
The ringing of his cell phone distracted him, moving his thoughts in a different direction.   
  
He thought about ignoring the summons, but when the ringing persisted, he finally answered with a gruff, “What?”  
  
“Charles Gunn here.”    
  
Spike was decidedly unimpressed.  “Yeah?”  
  
“The girl you found is awake.  Says her name is Buffy.  That ring a bell with you?”  
  
His free hand wound through his hair, trying to calm the thumping of his heart.  Her name was as fragile as she was. . . .  Fragile and surprisingly silly.  Images of a younger girl, golden hair swirling in the sunlight as she played on the swings crossed his mind and Spike hoped, for her sake, she’d had that.   
  
The silence stretched too long and Gunn repeated his question.    
  
“No, never met her,” Was the only answer Spike was willing to give.  He’d seen her, though.  But he wasn’t about to tell Gunn where – or his suspicions about the beating.  
  
“Just doing my job.”  More silence greeted his blunt statement and Spike held back the retort forming.  “Would you mind writing out a statement and giving me a DNA sample?”  
  
 _Fuck._   He’d hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.    
  
“Yeah.  I’ll meet you . . . where?”  
  
“My office is fine.”  
  
“Right.”  Without another word, Spike clicked off the phone and stared blankly at the dull walls of his room.  He rubbed the spot on his chest where the curve of her cheek had rested.  
  
The urge to confront the beast grew.  
  
Not for himself.  For her.  
  
To give her what she deserved.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
          
  
  
Wasn’t hard to track her down.   
  
Her unusual first name was a dead give-away.  
  
One look at the sister, though, had him rethinking the intelligence of notifying her next of kin.  
  
Dark circles under tired blue eyes, dull blond hair and too-quiet infant on her hip.  Baby was wide-eyed, staring warily at his surroundings.  Too late now to worry about it.  Girl was being released.  
  
Into what, Gunn wasn’t so sure of.  
  
The two blondes stared at each other, neither one inclined to speak.  
  
He wasn’t going to get any answers from either of them.  
  
The connection to Pratt wasn’t clear either, if there even was one.  
  
Gunn watched the silent trio leave, making mental notes to investigate with Child Protection Services and the girl’s school, and very certain he’d just made a mistake.    
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
It took all the strength she had not to collapse with every step.    
  
 _I so don’t want to go home.  Why do I have to go?  It’s not home, not anymore.  Not with **him** there._   
  
Staring out the car window, the thought of just opening the door and letting herself fall crossed her mind, then stayed there.    
  
It would be so easy.  Just let go.    
  
Open the door. . .    
  
and fall.   
  
The car cruised to a slow stop and the sound of her sister’s tired voice finally broke into her dark musings.  Darla was mouthing something about how she was worried about her, when the look on Buffy’s face must have warned her not to continue.  
  
No false assurances rang from her lips then, no words of encouragement or affection, only dark, blank stares until Darla was the one to look away first.    
  
 _Fucking bitch knows. . .  And won’t protect me._  
  
 _I can’t go back.  I can’t. . .  Oh, fuck, I can’t go back there.  He’s there._  
  
“He’s not home.  He won’t be home until Sunday.  County championship is tomorrow.”  
  
She wasn’t aware of the sigh that shook her thin chest, but Darla felt it.  Refusing to look into the mirror, avoiding her own gaze, the older blonde reached out a hand, then let it drop to the seat between them.  
  
Silence filled the car, even the baby sensing the impending doom hanging over them.    
  
 _Two more days.   Just two days.  I gotta do something.  I can’t stay . . . can’t keep letting him touch me._  
  
Gorge rose in her throat and she choked it back, holding the hysteria at bay.  
  
 _Can’t. . . just can’t._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
      
Dusk slid silent shadows over the streets, and he found himself walking without purpose. He'd done much of that in the last few days, his feet echoing his soul's need to avoid stillness. Thoughts stole in whenever he was still, thoughts he'd rather not face.   
  
His feet kept him moving, motion giving a semblance of peace.   
  
Her face haunted him; the pain in her eyes caught and held his soul.   
  
_Buffy. . ._   
  
That was all Gunn had told him, her first name.  
  
He rounded a corner, tempted for a moment to return to the place he'd found her – even knowing she wouldn't still be there. He needed to see her, needed to know she was okay, even if it were far from the truth.   
  
Maybe he'd imagined her features, the sparkle – despite the pain – in her remarkable eyes. Maybe she wouldn't be the same vulnerable, ethereal creature his memory kept conjuring.   
  
_Maybe . . ._   
  
Somewhere out there, in the twilight of suburbia, she was hiding from a monster he should have uncovered years ago. Guilt washed through him, riding on his conscience like a festering wound. Had he the courage ten years past, she might have been saved from this . . . might not have had to bear the weight of his shame.  
  
He should have. . . knew he should have. But shame and fear and disgust and self-hatred had kept his tongue silent. And now, she paid the price of his fear. . .   
  
As if conjured from his thoughts, her face appeared in the periphery of his sight, teasing at his awareness. Spike turned to face her, believing his mind was playing tricks on him. But she was real, as real as the dark bruise mottling her cheek, as real as the cast covering her arm, and as real as the shock on her own face.  
  
She moved forward, compelled by her own thoughts to stand closer. Her mouth gaped open, and her panting breaths were the only sound in the growing darkness. "Are you real?"  
  
"I am."  
  
His wry smile answered her own.  
  
"For a little while I thought I was dreaming. But I don't have good dreams."  
  
He acknowledged the truth, without giving much of his own away. Confronted with her reality, he reverted to the shy, tongue-tied boy he'd once been and found himself unable to do more than just gawk at her.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Spike looked away, his jaw clenching. "For?"  
  
"You saved me. I don't think I would've made it."      
              
Her turn to look away, her turn to avoid his eyes. Spike stared at her profile, tracing the soft curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulders and the soft swell of her breasts. Easier to remember what wasn't marred by the hands of a brute, to catalogue her sweetness than to dwell upon his own part in her pain.   
  
He choked on her gratitude, couldn't form words past the lump in his throat, stealing his ability to speak. A mere nod was all he could give her.   
  
"Who are you?"   
  
_Oh, she's a bold one. . . no fear 't all. . ._   
  
His answer came swiftly, surprising him more than her. "M'name's Will. Ah, well, most call me Spike, though."  
  
Her smile reached her eyes this time. "I'm Buffy."  
  
Spike's heart contracted when she stepped closer. She was so tiny, fragile and yet. . . . she didn't back down. Didn't shy away from him. By rights she should be scared to death of him. . . should be cowering away. But no, she faced him, came close to him, dared to speak to him. _Maybe there's hope for her . . ._ unlike how William had felt.   
  
"I'm supposed to be meeting my friend. . . but . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked away, unwilling to face him.   
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
          
  
"I'm going out."  
  
Only an assessing look had greeted her statement, only a mostly blank stare. Both knew rules no longer applied, no longer mattered. Darla had no escape, but recognized the plans whirling behind her baby sister's eyes. . . plans to get away, to run from the monster tormenting them both.  
  
Buffy slipped from the house, the door banging against the frame as she fled.   
  
No clear destination in mind, she told herself she was going to see Willow. . or Xander or . . . But no, she didn't want to explain the latest set of bruises, or the broken arm. . . or how she'd escaped.   
  
She just needed out. Needed time away from her own personal hell, since nowhere inside those walls was safe, even with him gone. His presence was all over the house and she couldn't bear it, not at this moment.  
  
Her body was still sore, her muscles protesting every step, every movement away. For each aching, throbbing, jarring step, her spirit lightened. She was away – she could pretend – for a very little while, that she would finally be safe.  
  
Buffy knew she couldn't go far, her body wouldn't allow it. At least not right now. Not at this moment. Not with bruised ribs and a broken arm. Two days . . . two days she had to come up with an escape, a way to get free of him. . .   
  
Footsteps thumped on the pavement and she slowed her steps, fearful of who she might come across. Buffy slipped behind the Anderson's big old oak tree, blanking her mind and hoping she was small enough to avoid detection, hoping she was invisible enough to disappear from whoever was approaching.  
  
The curiosity that was her downfall drove her from behind the tree.   
  
The figure stepped beneath a streetlight and Buffy's breath froze in her chest.  
  
She remembered very little of what had occurred before she woke in the hospital – only fleeting images of blond hair, blue eyes and a deep, soothing voice had penetrated her pain. It had to have been a dream, because no one ever took care of her, no one cared enough about her. . .   
  
Except she hadn't been dreaming.   
  
That white blond hair couldn't have been imagined, because it belonged to the man crossing the street, coming toward her. _Is he real?_   
  
Fear rode her, but the need to understand goaded her, riding in her gut along with the shards of pain she bore without complaint.   
  
Before she could stop them, words were tumbling from her mouth. "Are you real?"  
  
He'd stopped, his footsteps grinding to a halt to gape at her.   
  
"I am." His words caused a brief shiver.   
  
She smiled, more happy than sad and he smiled a little bit back at her.   
  
"For a little while I thought I was dreaming. But I don't have good dreams."  
  
Buffy closed her eyes, afraid she'd given too much away, but he stayed silent, looking away from her. Feeling as if he were as unused to thanks as she was to giving them, Buffy took the gift of his silence and dared more.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
"For?" He looked uncomfortable with that and she briefly wondered why. . . it felt, he acted as if he were the one to hurt her.   
  
"You saved me. I don't think I would've made it."  _Oh, God.   I can’t believe I just. . . .  Maybe he doesn’t get it, maybe. . ._  
  
One look at the side of his jaw told her she’d been transparent, had given too much of herself away. . . and though the fear started rising, something about the clenched jaw and the tilt of his head gave her pause.  _Or maybe, he understands. . ._   
  
She looked away, hiding the truth from his too brilliant eyes.  When he didn’t question her, didn’t do anything more than nod his acceptance, she breathed a sigh of relief.    
  
"Who are you?"   _No, no, no. . . don’t ask. .  Asking makes him real.  Asking him . ._ .   
  
"M'name's Will. Ah, well, most call me Spike, though."  
  
"I'm Buffy."  
  
 _Too late now. .  Why am I not afraid of him?  How come he makes me feel okay?  He looks dangerous, scary. . . and yet, he’s the one that saved me._  
  
"I'm supposed to be meeting my friend. . . but . . .”     
  
Buffy knew only one thing – she didn’t want to leave without getting to be around him.  Edging closer to his solid form, she dared a glance up at his profile.  _Why aren’t I afraid of him?_  
  
 _Why?_  
  
 _Why instead do I feel safe?_  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from Anne Sexton, “Locked Doors”.


	4. Fourth

**_Fourth_**  
  
 ** _Bury me softly in this womb_**  
 ** _I give this part of me for you_**  
 ** _Sand rains down and here I sit_**  
 ** _Holding rare flowers in a tomb... in bloom_**  
  
 ** _Down in a hole and I don't know if I can be saved_**  
 ** _See my heart I decorate it like a grave_**  
 ** _You don't understand who they thought_**  
 ** _I was supposed to be_**  
 ** _Look at me now a man who won't let himself be_**  
  
 ** _Down in a hole, feeling so small_**  
 ** _Down in a hole, losin' my soul_**  
 ** _I'd like to fly,_**  
 ** _But my wings have been so denied_**  
  
 ** _Down in a hole and they've put all the stones in their place_**  
 ** _I've eaten the sun so my tongue has been burned of the taste_**  
 ** _I have been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth_**  
 ** _I will speak no more of my feelings beneath_**  
  
 ** _Down in a hole, feeling so small_**  
 ** _Down in a hole, losin' my soul_**  
 ** _I'd like to fly,_**  
 ** _But my wings have been so denied_**  
  
 ** _Bury me softly in this womb_**  
 ** _(Oh I want to be inside of you)_**  
 ** _I give this part of me for you_**  
 ** _(Oh I want to be inside of you)_**  
 ** _Sand rains down and here I sit_**  
 ** _(Oh I want to be inside of you)_**  
 ** _Holding rare flowers in a tomb... in bloom_**  
 ** _(Oh I want to be inside)_**  
  
 ** _Down in a hole, feelin' so small_**  
 ** _Down in a hole, losin' my soul_**  
 ** _Down in a hole, feelin' so small_**  
 ** _Down in a hole, out of control_**  
 ** _I'd like to fly,_**  
 ** _But my wings have been so denied_**  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
“D’you remember that night?”  
  
Her fingers trailed lightly over his bare chest, a hesitant, featherweight whisper of skin on skin.    
  
Spike shifted, moving his head to glance down at her.  “Which night, kitten?”  
  
A half smile crept over her features and she blew out a breath, watching his skin react.  
  
“That night in the park.”  
  
He rolled to his side, hooking her thigh up over his waist.  “Mmm.  Don’t think I’ll ever forget that one.”  
  
“Really?  Why?”  
  
His turn now, to trail tender fingers over her flesh, the curve of her breast calling to him.  “Never met someone like you before, so . . . like a fragile . .  .”  He smiled, dropping a quick kiss on her nose.  “Like those roses, yeah?  Fragile an’ wild; stronger than they look.”  
  
Hazel eyes caught his, understanding dawning.  “That’s why you only bring me wild flowers.”  
  
That crooked smile she loved so much crossed his lips and the twinkle in his eyes was only for her.  Her thumb crossed his lips, stalling his next words.  “The only reason I’m strong is because of you.”  
  
“Not true, baby.”  His deep voice rumbled between them, filling her insides until she nearly burst.  “You’re stronger than you think.  You were strong before I met you, an’ you would’ve survived.”  
  
Closing the narrow distance between them, she wrapped her hands around his arm, tethering them together.  “Maybe.”  
  
She was in no mood to argue with him.  She wanted what she had, his arms curled around her, his hands warm on her skin.  Her body leaning into his, safe, secure in his arms.  “Wanna know what I remember?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“I remember thinking you were dangerous, that you had this temper that was just waiting to explode. . . but that you wouldn’t hurt me.  That you would somehow take care of me.”  
  
Fingertip patterns wove through the curls at the nape of his neck and he stretched like a big cat, his whole body moving under her touch.  
  
“Sounds crazy, right?”  
  
“Not really, sweetheart.  I wouldn’t ever hurt you.  An’ I wasn’t angry _with_ you, kitten, was angry _for_ you.”  
  
“I got that.”  She leaned closer, her breasts flattening against his chest.  “I still feel safe with you.”  
  
His hand slipped down around her ass, dipping his fingers into her core.  She undulated, writhing around him.  Buffy leaned closer, her mouth hovering just over his skin, her breath finding a home in his pores.  “And I thought you were gorgeous.”  
  
A low chuckle greeted her admission and he rolled to his back, guiding over him.  “You were breathtaking.  Fierce, fragile. . . ethereal.  Wanted to protect you from everythin’.  Wanted to keep you safe.”  
  
She took him in, clenching around his hard length as his words washed over her.  Her hands grasped his shoulders, steadying herself as he arched up, thrusting deep.    
  
“You do, Spike.”    
  
He stilled his movements, his hand reaching out to cup the side of her face.  “I love you.”  
  
Teardrops welled in her eyes, her heart constricting.  She trembled, holding back the sobs threatening.  Her voice was thready, heavily laden with all that she tried to show him.  “I love you, too.  So much.”  
  
He flipped them, cradling her small form in his arms.  “Think I’ve loved you since that night.”  
  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years prior_**  
  
  
Somehow, they ended up back where it all started for them, near the roses.  Buffy trailed her hand through the petals and leaves, her head down.   
  
Spike watched her, his eyes following the marks her hand made.  She was so small next to him, yet he sensed the strength she banked, hid from the world.  
  
“How come you’re here?”  
  
 _Damn good question, kitten._ ‘M not really sure myself.  “Went to highschool here, for a bit.”  
  
“Really?  When?”  
  
“More ‘an ten years gone, pet.”    
  
She turned to look at him, an assessing look in her eyes.  “You don’t look that old.”  
  
He lifted his shoulder in dismissal.  “Didn’t finish.  Left before I was seventeen.”  
  
“How come?”  
  
 _Because, kitten, I’d been used, abused, raped, and sodomized by someone I should’ve been able to trust. . ._ The words hung there, in his head and Spike fought them back.  Instead, he gave her the same answer he gave everyone.  “Had my reasons.”  
  
“Must have been good ones.”  She angled away from him, unwilling to let him see her own emotions.  “I wanna leave here.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
Unlike most people, who let his answer stand, she threw it back at him.  “I have my reasons.”  
  
For once, Spike didn’t hold back.  “Like what happened the other night?”  
  
Buffy froze, fear clenching in her muscles.  She couldn’t think, couldn’t . . . wouldn’t turn around to face him.  Finally, whisper soft and heartbroken, she spoke one word,  “Yeah.”  
  
He didn’t speak, didn’t push her for more.  So because of that, Buffy felt compelled to fill the silence.  
  
“It wasn’t an accident.”  
  
Spike waited for her to say more.  When she didn’t, he murmured softly, “I never thought it was.”  
  
“I hate him.  Hate her, too.  I wish. . .” Her voice drifted off, the wish unspoken, unbirthed in her throat.  A barking sob broke from her and she crumpled, caving in on herself.   
  
She didn’t flinch when his arms caught and held her, instead curling into his hold.  “I’ve got you, kitten.”  
  
Tears soaked his shirt, tears she’d fought so hard not to shed in front of anyone else.  Darla never saw her tears.  _He_ never saw them.  She wouldn’t . . . refused to give either of them more of herself.  

  
He lifted her up, cradling her gently in his arms.  “Shhh, let it out, sweetheart.  Jus’ let it out.”  
  
Long minutes she wept, her head tucked beneath his chin.  Her body shook with the force of her angry grief, hiccuping for lack of air.    
  
Buffy mumbled an apology into his chest, her fingers tightening around the hem of his shirt, rubbing softly.  “I’m sorry.”  
  
“No need to be.”  His voice was deep, rusty with some emotion she’d never dreamed to hear from anyone else.  “You needed it.”  
  
Salty snot pooled in her nostrils and she sniffled.  “I guess.  I don’t cry a lot.”  
  
Her broken arm lay heavily across their bodies, a reminder of why she was crying.  Spike stared at the fiberglass, wondering if he dared speak of anything further.  Before he could form words, she was speaking again.  
  
“I don’t know why you’re here, helping me.  I guess it doesn’t matter, right?”  Not waiting for his answer, she kept on, her voice soft and aching.  “I have to get away.  I can’t let this happen anymore.  I just don’t have anywhere to go. . .  I tried once before.  He found me.”  
  
Her head dropped onto his shoulder, resting just above the steady thump of his heart.  “Is there anyone you trust?”  
  
The laugh that emerged was bitter and ironic.  “You.”  
  
That surprised him.  He’d expected someone else. . . a teacher, but then, no. . . if whom he suspected was the culprit, a teacher wouldn’t be of any help.  “Why me?”    
  
“Coz you aren’t from around here.  You don’t . . . you saved me.”  
  
“Oh, kitten.”  
  
“My mom died when I was eleven.  My sister was already married, you know?  So I came to live with her.  They should’ve just let me go into a foster home.  I might have been safer.”    
  
Buffy wouldn’t look at him, couldn’t.  It was easier to get this out without watching his reaction, without seeing the moment she disgusted him and he wanted to get away.    
  
“I _know_ it’s not me.  He’s the sick fuck.  But. . .” She hung her head, unable to continue.  
  
Spike shifted, his arm tightening around her.  “Not your fault at all, sweetheart.  Not your fault.”  
  
“I kicked him once.  That was. . . that was the first time he beat me.  He . .  I broke my wrist and got a black eye.”  
  
 _Oh, God. . . I’m gonna kill that fucker, so help me.  I’m gonna.  I can’t. . ._ He tried forming words, something to help her, but nothing made sense, nothing would help her.  Spike held on, his hand running up and down her back, the touch soft and soothing.  
  
“Can I just stay here, like this?”  
  
That he could answer.  “As long as you need to, kitten.”  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, twelve years prior_**  
  
  
He was late.   
  
Late was bad.  Very bad.  
  
No one was left the in the showers.  Everyone else from the team had long since departed.  Will grabbed his sneakers, toeing off his cleats without untying them.  Panic slowed his movements, fear threading through his muscles.  _Gotta leave, gotta get out ‘f here._  
  
The slam of a door behind him had him jumping, but when no further noise sounded, he relaxed.    
  
“Running late, William?”  
  
 _Oh, shit. . . no.  Not now.  Please, just leave me alone and lemme go. . . please. . ._  
  
“My mum’s waitin’ on me.”  
  
“Didn’t see her car.”    
  
Will refused to look up, refused to acknowledge the monster’s presence.  “She’ll be here any moment.”  
  
The quaver in his voice gave him away, and like the predator he was, Liam Angelus was on him.   
  
“Shouldn’t lie, William.  It’s not a good thing to be doing.”  
  
Trying his best to ignore the hulking figure at his back, Will continued stuffing his books into his backpack.  He could feel warm breath on his neck, the big body crowding him, shifting closer and closer.  
  
It was almost a relief when that big hand reached out to touch him.  William stilled, only his pounding, terrified heart moving.  _No . .  no. . . no.   Please._  
  
“Turn around, Will.”  
  
He froze, unable to move.  Unable to obey.  Unable to flee.    
  
Part of him longed to strike back, to be strong enough to fight, to avoid what he knew was . . .     
  
“Turn around, Will, or I’ll make it harder on you.”  A low, evil chuckle broke the sudden, suffocating silence.  “I’m gonna make it hard for ya, any way, lad, so just turn around.  I’d like to see your face when I’m holding you.”  
  
That voice meant blood.  
  
Meant pain.  
  
Disengaging his brain, Will turned.  
  
Angelus was ready for him; hard, pulsing cock in hand.  “Clothes off, boyo.”  
  
Eyes closed, Will followed the orders.  Experience had taught him not to disobey, not to fight what too often ended up making him bleed.  Better to just. . . a small, tiny part of him died inside, every time.    
  
Shriveled, broke, shattered.    
  
Wailed against the wrongness of it all.    
  
Ached to turn the tables and make him suffer.  To make him be the one to bleed.  
  
With a deceptively gentle hand, Angelus removed Will’s glasses, putting them aside.    
  
That same hand reached down. . .   Captured his fear-shrunken penis and worked it into arousal.    
  
“Much better.”  
  
Warm spunk covered Will’s erection, Angelus rubbing it into his skin.  “You’re _mine_ , boyo, always will be.  No one else will want you, knowing what I’ve done to you.  Knowing I’ve had my prick up your pretty little arse, made you cum for me.”  
  
Something in him broke, for the last time.  A litany rolled through his head as Angelus worked his body.  _Never again, I’m leavin’ . . .  not one more time. . .  never, never, never. . . not gonna let ‘im touch me. . ._   
  
He retched, vomiting against the side of the building, leaving his cleats and uniform in the mess.  
  
Nothing mattered, he wasn’t returning.  
  
William was done with this place.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
  
“I’ve loved you since that night, too.”  
  
She held onto him, knowing he’d gone someplace still.  Somewhere inside himself that was still that frightened, scared teenager.    
  
“Spike?”  
  
He didn’t answer her for long minutes, his eyes blank and hooded, staring off into nothing.  Tears pooled in her eyes, not for her own pain, but for his.  
  
He rarely spoke of what happened, rarely let it affect him.  Rarely let himself remember, preferring to leave it locked away.  
  
“Will?”  
  
This time her voice caught his attention, his eyes closing briefly before focusing on hers.  “ _Oh_ , Will.”  
  
Buffy’s fingers covered his cheek, wiping away the light sheen of invisible tears.  “I do love you.  So, so much.”  
  
He smiled, sad, wistful.  “Love you with all m’heart, kitten.”  
  
“Promise me something.”  
  
“Anything.”  He nuzzled her cheek, his breath snuffling out, wafting over her ear.  “The world, if you want it.”  
  
“I just want you.”    
  
He smiled against her skin.  “You’ve got me.”      
  
Buffy wriggled in his arms, aligning their bodies.  Her hips rose up, thighs curling around his waist.  “We’ve got each other.”  
  
Spike leaned on his elbow, his eyes drinking in her expression.  “What?”  
  
She was smiling, her eyes twinkling in the dark, a secret lying in their depths.  Her arms wrapped around him, anchoring him to her.  “Don’t wig on me.”  
  
“Kitten. . .”  
  
“We’re gonna have a baby.”  
  
“What?”  Spike froze.  “Buffy?”  
  
“Don’t. . .   Spike, look at me.”  Her hand held onto his cheek, pulling his face down to hers.  “I’m _fine. We’re_ fine.”  
  
 _Baby. . . a baby. . .  Our baby._    
  
“Sweetheart?”  
  
“It’s okay.  I want you. .  Spike, I love you so much.  This is just. . .”   Her smile wavered a bit in the face of his shock, but she plowed on, willing him to understand.  “It’s a little me and you.  It’s hope.  Our baby is hope.”  
  
Raw and vulnerable, his whiskey soft voice threaded through her, melting her insides.  “Ours. . .”  
  
Spike knelt up, his hand and eyes falling on her belly.  Fingers splayed over the still flat surface as he peeked up at her.  He tried to speak, tried to say something. . . anything, but for once, words failed him.     
  
His hand trembled, breath caught in his throat and a harsh, aching sob gurgled up.  Crystal tears fell onto her skin, pooling there.  
  
“Hope?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is song lyrics from Alice in Chains (lyrics by Layne Staley and music by Jerry Cantrell. Go listen, they’re more than worth the time you take.


	5. Fifth

**_Fifth_**  
  
 ** _You fear the lesson_**  
 ** _And fear to walk_**  
 ** _And fear to pass on_**  
 ** _Your fear to talk_**  
 ** _The teacher was feared_**  
 ** _Your parents too_**  
 ** _Then you became_**  
 ** _The fear of you_**  
 ** _Fear_**  
 ** _Look to yourself_**  
 ** _Climb over the wall_**  
 ** _And see behind_**  
 ** _That you're not so small_**  
 ** _Then you won't blame fear_**  
 ** _When competing's too much_**  
 ** _As you fall on your back_**  
 ** _As you fail to touch_**  
 ** _Fear_**  
 ** _And I say to you_**  
 ** _When your fear is strong_**  
 ** _When you fear your life_**  
 ** _Then your fear is wrong_**  
 ** _Set free your past_**  
 ** _So shredding the skin_**  
 ** _Then you won't fear_**  
 ** _The fear of sin_**  
 ** _Fear_**  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
  
His low voice rolled through her, countering the shivers of pain and fatigue trembling through her legs.   A soothing heartbeat thumped steadily below her ear, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.  Buffy had never in her life felt safer.  
  
She barely knew him.  
  
Knew only his name.  Knew he’d been born just outside of London, and had lived here briefly in his teens.  
  
And knew, beyond any shade of doubt, he would keep her safe.  
  
His touch didn’t make her skin crawl.  Make her feel dirty or unclean or . . .  She felt safe.  
  
The heavy weight of her cast was supported by his strong thigh, her fingers resting gently over his knee.   
  
Tucked up against the side of a virtual stranger, Buffy was reminded of her mother – and how, once upon a time, she’d been cared for and loved.  
  
“You warm enough?”   
  
He’d felt the tremors coursing through her, the tiny tell-tale shivers indicating all was not well with her.    
  
“I’m fine.  Toasty.”  
  
The chuckle did strange things to her insides, turned them all over, fluttering in her belly.  “Know you’re lying, pet, can feel you.”  
  
“Ground is cold.”  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
He’d never just held someone before, for comfort or for any other reason.  Whenever he’d let anyone touch him, it had been . . .  He’d barely let his mother hug him before she’d died.  
  
And yet here he was.  Holding her.  Shielding her.    
  
She felt so right tucked up against his side, his arm draped across her thin shoulders, her head resting in the hollow just beneath his neck.  
  
No warnings swam along his nerves, no fear of her inflicting pain, whether through her touch or her words made him wary.    
  
A tightly suppressed tremor traveled the length of her leg and Spike reacted instinctively.  “You warm enough?”   
  
More tremors raced across her legs, making the lie all the more obvious.  “I’m fine.  Toasty.”  
  
“Know you’re lying, pet, can feel you.”  
  
She turned to look at him, indirect light from the street lamps illuminating her eyes, highlighting her delicate, elfin features.  Her lower lip wobbled, puffing out away from the top one and he was lost.    
  
Her voice was drowned out by his low growl, the words lost in the night.  Spike pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping the duster around them both.    
  
“Better?”  
  
Her head settled against his chest, fingers toying with the edges of soft black leather.  A sigh drifted over his hands, the word more feeling than sound.  “Much.”  
  
Silence fell, the crickets chirping their own conversations while he listened to the beat of her heart.   
  
“Can we stay like this forever?”  
  
“Would that we could, kitten.”    
  
Silence fell, comforting and soft, filled only by the muffled thump of two hearts beating.  
  
She was quiet for so long, he’d thought she’d fallen asleep, hoped for it almost.    
  
“How come you left?”  
  
 _What a bloody loaded question that is. . . whyn’t you jus’ ask me why m’eyes are blue, might be an easier one to answer. ..  Or even why I bothered comin’ back to this pestilent hole._ Spike bit his tongue, forcing his thoughts to a better reply.  “Had to.  Couldn’t stay here any longer.”  
  
“Did something happen?”  Innocently asked, yet her tone implied she had an inkling as to why.  Or at least her mind was already supplying a reason.  
  
This time, the silence wasn’t comforting, wasn’t soft.  He ached, the ache leaching into his posture, hardening his hold.  “Could say that.”  
  
Spike nearly dumped her off his lap, ready to leave her to the darkness, ashamed and afraid to reveal his own horrible secret.  Buffy reached up, her small broken fingers tracing tentative lines over his mouth.  “It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
How she knew, she couldn’t tell.  Couldn’t admit to seeing the same horror in her own eyes  sometimes staring back from a mirrored image.  The fear etched in her bones. . . in her soul.  Fear she felt, hitching her breath and making her shake at night.    
  
Surprise caught him.  Her touch. . .   No pain, no anger.  Just shared sorrow and grief for what was lost and might never be found again.  He looked down at her, the sprite in his arms, and he wondered for the first time just what he’d stumbled onto.    
  
Evidence of someone’s fists and anger was writ largely all over her.  Deeper scars no doubt hidden even from herself.   And yet strength thrummed through her.  Resilience. . .  Hope. .   Something he’d long ago forgotten.  
  
Hope didn’t exist.    
  
Trust didn’t either.  
  
Yet this battered fairy sprite, nestling in his arms proved otherwise.  She hoped and trusted and gifted him with both.   Spike stared into her upturned eyes and took the biggest leap of faith in his life.  
  
Words tumbled from his lips, images and emotions he’d buried so deeply flowing from his lips in a torrent.  Words he’d agonized over sharing with his therapist, carefully chosen memories he didn’t – _couldn’t_ – ever admit to, and yet. . .  _And yet._    
  
Every horrible, hurtful memory spewed forth and he braced himself for the rejection, knowing even as a tiny kernel of himself hoped otherwise, she wouldn’t turn away.  Wouldn’t reel back in disgust.  

  
_Hope._  
  
When he was done and it was all purged, every damning thing – his voice hoarse and broken from the telling, she wrapped him in her arms and held him.    
  
She said only four words to him.  Four words that shattered his world, then held it in her hands.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Tears he never shed – and never in front of anyone else – coursed down his cheeks, falling onto her.  
  
Her next words captured his heart, then broke it all over again.  “I know it wasn’t you, because he’s the one . .   It’s him.”  
  
Some noise croaked from him, some choking sound and this time she was the one clinging to him.    
Spike held on, cradling her close while her fingers bruised his skin.  Her story slipped from her, muffled against his hard chest.  Tears bathed his clothes, soaking them.  
  
Lifting her face up, he stared into her darkened eyes, searching for some truth only he understood.  Heavy teardrops clumped her lashes, making them dark and full.  “I’m sorry, kitten, so bloody sorry.”  
  
His only answer was the mantra she’d been repeating, the only truth she could cling to. “Not your fault.  Not your fault.”  
  
Slightly chilled fingers brushed over his cheeks, wiping away tears he didn’t know he’d shed.    
  
His hand came up to meet hers, cupping her hand over his lips.  One by one he kissed them, asking for absolution where none would ever be possible.  Despite her claim to the contrary, Spike knew he held blame.  Guilt for his own inability to speak, guilt over his crimes . . . crimes he’d unknowingly committed against her.    
  
“Shhhh, kitten.”  He didn’t dare whisper what he wanted, promising nothing but false truths.  Nothing would be right, not now. . .   
  
Daylight was beginning to break through, shadows lightening from black to grey and her eyes glowed as he stared into them.  Silence lengthened, broken only by their whispered exhalations.    
  
His eyes drifted shut, new tears forming when her words floated up to his ears.  “You saved me.  Thank you, Spike.“  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 _So strong. . ._   Buffy wasn’t repulsed by his strength or his proximity.  Instead of scaring her, his presence eased the terrified, whimpering child within.  He knew. . . understood.   Had suffered at the same hands she had.     
  
The tight knot burning in her eased, snuffing out in the face of his admission.  His words had been laced with more pain, laden with guilt and suffering she could understand.  Their shared pain bonded them, bound them as firmly as blood shared.    
  
He believed her pain was his fault.  
  
She couldn’t let him think that.  
  
It wasn’t his fault.  It wasn’t hers.    
  
The fault was . . .  In fate.    
  
Blame, however, lay squarely on the shoulders of someone else.    
  
Not for the first time, she wondered if he’d done this before, to others.  Others like this man holding her close, too afraid to speak up, to speak out.  To end their torment.  
  
Buffy snuggled closer into his hold, her head resting just over his heart.  The steady thump called to her.  Gave her peace.   Comfort.    
  
It had been so long since someone – anyone – held her like this.  
  
“I don’t wanna go home.”  
  
A long sigh rippled from him, dislodging her a little.   “Don’t wan’ ta let you go.”  
  
Her eyes found his in the growing light.    
  
Questions were asked and answered, promises made and kept, pain released and hearts pledged in those moments.    
  
Greyish green light bathed them, flaring into golden pink, warming them both.  
  
Buffy closed her eyes, laid her head on his chest and slept.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Touching was something he didn’t like.  He couldn’t imagine she’d welcome it much either.  _And yet. . ._   
  
And yet, here they were.  
  
She’d curled up in his arms, held him closely.   Let him cry out his pain, grief and anger.    
  
And she hadn’t once let go.  
  
Held onto him through the tears, through the anger.  
  
Held on . . .  Clung to him.  
  
Welcomed his touch.  
  
Spike watched the sunrise come alive on her features and swore inwardly.  
  
In one night, under the cover of darkness, she’d given him light.  Given him hope.  
  
She trusted him.  
  
Knew he wouldn’t hurt her.  
  
She’d had enough trust and hope left in her to give him another chance.  To prove to himself that he wasn’t as tainted as he’d believed.  
  
Three years in therapy hadn’t done as much good as twelve hours with her.    
  
Refusing to leave her under the roses, Spike struggled to his feet, his arms closing around her.  _Gonna keep you safe, kitten, safe as I can until I can figure this all out._   
  
The streets were silent, hardly anyone out and about.  Dawn was still a bit off, the sun just breaking over the eastern horizon when he reached his room at the hotel.  
  
She didn’t stir in his arms when he jostled her to open the door.  Nor did she move when he eased off her jacket and boots, nor when he laid her down on the bed.  He waited, wondering if she would wake when his body finally rested next to hers.    
  
What she did should have surprised him.  Somehow that it didn’t, surprised him even more.  
  
Spike placed his head on the pillow, after removing his own boots and shirt, sliding easily under the covers.  Buffy snuggled closer, sighing softly in her sleep, her face resting against his bare shoulder.  
  
He sighed, staring up at the ceiling, his instincts warring with the embers of hope she’d managed to stir to life.  
  
In the end, when he slept, it was dreamless.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
Sleep wouldn’t come.  
  
Couldn’t entice Morpheus to slip into the bed beside him and allow his unsettled soul rest.  
  
Even knowing the source of his disquiet didn’t help.  
  
He knew why he couldn’t sleep.  
  
The child-woman resting peacefully in his embrace had once more shattered his world.  Taken it in her hands and remolded it into something completely new, totally unexpected.  
  
Two years, they’d lived hidden away from the world, wary, afraid, hiding from everyone and everything.    
  
 _Safe._  
  
 _Protected._  
  
And now, with one sweetly worded sentence, she’d forced them to take steps out into the world.    
  
Once before they’d weathered a storm, a colossal tempest, swirling and raging, bathed in blood and pain.    
  
This wasn’t the same.  Wasn’t nearly as pain-wracked.  
  
And yet, it had the capability of rocking the precarious foundations of their world.  
  
Moonlight broke through clouds, illuminating the bed, shining on her countenance.  Even in darkness, she called the light to her.  Brought it into his world, lighting up the darkest of moments.  
  
She _was_ light.  
  
Spike leaned over her, a calloused finger tracing the contours of her face, brushing gently over closed eyes and snoring nose.  A smile crossed his features, tentative, wary.    
  
He didn’t have it in him to fight her.    
  
Tears seeped from his partially closed eyes, dropping silently onto her soft skin.  Spike gathered her into his shaking arms, soft promises murmured into her ear.  _Gonna keep you  safe. . . gonna._  
  
 _All of you.  Us.  All of us.  Me, you . . . and now babies.  Connor. . ._  
  
“I love you, kitten.  For always, for-bloody- _ever_.  God, how I love you.”  
  
Her small hand cupped his cheek, her kiss brushed across his neck.    
  
“Will. . .”  
  
“Right here, baby, ‘m right here.”  
  
“Love you.  Everything’s gonna be okay.”    
  
She lifted sleepy eyes, lambent with unshed tears.  “Don’t cry, Will.  We’re gonna be okay.”  
  
Nuzzling a kiss into her palm, Spike swept her beneath him, his hard length sliding easily within her depths.    
  
“Love you.”  
  
“I know, William.  I love you, too.  Always.”  
  
Salty sweet tears bathed her face.  “We’re safe, Will.”  
  
“Gonna keep you that way.”  
  
“I know.”  Buffy pulled his head down, feather soft kisses closing his eyes, her lips soothing away his tears.  “Shhhhhh . . .  It’s okay.”  
  
Hope flared in his chest, sparking to life.    
                                      
 _We’re gonna be okay._  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is as attributed (this time it’s an HIM song, Heartache Every Moment, off the album Deep Shadows and Brilliant Highlights, 2002).


	6. Sixth

**_Sixth_**  
  
 ** _From lashes to ashes_**  
 ** _And from lust to dust_**  
 ** _In your sweetest torment_**  
 ** _I'm lost_**  
 ** _And no heaven can help us_**  
 ** _Ready, willing and able_**  
 ** _To lose it all_**  
 ** _For a kiss so fatal_**  
 ** _And so worn_**  
 ** _Oh it's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _From the start 'til the end_**  
 ** _It's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _With you_**  
 ** _Deeper into heavenly suffering_**  
 ** _Our fragile souls are falling_**  
 ** _It's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _Baby with you_**  
 ** _We sense the danger_**  
 ** _But don't wanna give up_**  
 ** _There's no smile of an angel_**  
 ** _Without the wrath of god_**  
 ** _Oh it's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _From the start 'til the end_**  
 ** _It's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _With you_**  
 ** _Deeper into heavenly suffering_**  
 ** _Our fragile souls are falling_**  
 ** _It's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _Baby with you_**  
 ** _My darling with you_**  
 ** _From lashes to ashes_**  
 ** _And from lust to dust_**  
 ** _In your sweetest torment_**  
 ** _I am lost_**  
 ** _And we sense the danger_**  
 ** _But don't wanna give up_**  
 ** _Oh it's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _From the start 'til the end_**  
 ** _It's heartache every moment_**  
 ** _With you_**  
 ** _Deeper into heavenly suffering_**  
 ** _Our fragile souls are falling_**  
 ** _It's heartache every moment, baby with you_**  
 ** _That's right_**  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
  
Only two reports sat on his desk.  
  
Only two.  
  
He’d expected more.  Expected there to be a case file as thick as his arm, reams of paper chronicling the life of one Buffy Summers.  Instead, there were only two thin reports, neither of which offered him much of anything.  
  
Very little existed in the way of background.  It struck him as odd, enough to set off warning bells in his head.  _There has to be more to her story . . ._   
  
Gunn _knew_ it.  Knew it the way he knew there was no way William Pratt had any hand in her injuries.   
  
What he didn’t know was who did have a hand.  Or hands.  And other body parts.  
  
Flipping through the reports, Charles was suddenly determined to find out.  
  
  
  
 @~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
It was the breaths, soft and steady, on the back of her neck that woke her.    
  
Freezing her own breaths in her chest, she clenched her eyes closed, praying silently.  _Please. . .  not him.  Anyone.  Maybe it’s Darla. . .  or . . ._  
  
The heavy weight of her cast pulled on her arm, the pain flashing up her shoulder and causing an involuntary shift.  Her lungs expanded and she choked down some clean air.    
  
“All right, pet?”  
  
Her eyes flew open and she jerked, relief exploding into ungraceful movements.  “What?”  
  
“You’ve been twitchin’ and groanin’ for a bit now.  You okay?”  
  
It was only then that she realized she was sweating and shaking.  Her jaw was tight, teeth clenched against the scream threatening to erupt from her throat.  Buffy shook her head, unable to say anything.  
  
The light behind him switched on, and his arm eased down slowly, even as she flinched and cowered from the action.  
  
“Not goin’ to hurt you, kitten.  Wouldn’t do that.  Just makin’ sure you can see me, yeah?”  
  
His voice was low and very soft.  His hands stayed visible, one arm holding up his head as he lay next to her.    
  
“Bad dream?”  
  
Her eyes drifted closed, hiding the tears.    
  
“Do you want me to get up?”  
  
 _Do I?_   The dreams, though she couldn’t remember them, must have shaken her.  Must have scared her.  Buffy opened her eyes, unaware of the tears sliding down her cheeks.    
   
Her answer was a barely breathed “no”, which broke on a sob.   
  
Will eased up into a sitting position, only to find himself with an armful of sobbing girl.    
  
“Oh, kitten.  ‘S all right, ‘m right here.  ‘Ve got you.”    
  
She burrowed into his arms, her good hand clutching his arm painfully.  Tears soaked his shirt and he hesitated, then gave into the urge to wrap his arms around her.  “Got you, baby girl, ‘ve got you.”  
  
The sounds coming from him washed over her, spinning her a gossamer-thin cocoon of safety, woven from just his words.  Buffy held on, weeping into him, trying to keep from shattering again.  
  
She never noticed him move them.  Never realized they were leaning against the headboard, practically lying in each other’s arms.    
  
All she knew was how safe she felt, how protected.    
  
Buffy didn’t question it.     
  
She was safe.  
  
  
 @~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
      
  
He’d nearly fallen off the bed when she launched herself across the short distance separating them.  His arms wrapped around her, holding her still as she sobbed into his shirt, the tears soaking into his skin.  
  
Will hadn’t been prepared for her.  Not in any way.  She constantly surprised him, reacting differently than he expected.  
  
She rocked his foundations.  
  
Foundations he realized weren’t as rock solid as he’d thought.  Especially if one little slip of a girl could shake his beliefs.   
  
Buffy wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever met before.  
  
So much darkness surrounded her, threatening to swallow her up and yet she still trusted, still hoped. . . still believed in the good that barely existed inside of him.  Would she still believe if she knew?  

  
_Would she?_  
  
Or would the light fade and dim, never to be seen again?  
  
Will was afraid of taking the chance, of trusting her or himself to speak the one truth he’d been holding back.  The one thing that might change everything for them.  
  
Yet he needed to confide in her.  Needed to say the words constricting the air in his lungs.  Needed to lay bare his soul and hope she’d still find something good inside it.  
  
Something worth saving.  
  
Because he was suddenly sure that he’d risk anything and everything to protect her.  To keep her safe.  
  
To keep her.  
  
      
 @~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
“So where are we?”  
  
The soft whirr of the tiny refrigerator was the only distraction in the otherwise silent room. Buffy’s tears had dried, the only trace of them her salty sweet scent.  
  
Will shifted, his arms tightening around her.  “My hotel room.”  
  
That should have scared her off.  Set of warning bells in her head, pealing ‘get out, get out!’  
  
Had he been a different man, she might have bolted.  Might have run.  But he wasn’t and their location merited no more than a whispered, “Oh.”  
  
Maybe she was a fool.  
  
Maybe he’d turn on her and destroy her completely.  
  
 _Maybe._  
  
Only Buffy didn’t think so.    
  
There had been a horrible truth in his eyes when he’d broken down and confessed.  
  
A truth she recognized all too well.  
  
Truth that destroyed.  
  
Only she didn’t feel destroyed.  Didn’t think he felt that way either.  
  
They’d been broken – shattered pieces of their souls, ragged and torn, held together by tears and determination.  
  
Until tonight.  
  
Until they whispered secrets and shared tears.  
  
Her small fingers scritched and scratched over his cotton shirt, nose buried against his Adam’s apple.  
  
“Just ‘oh’?”  His tone was lazily curious, the deep sounds vibrating into her ear.  
  
“I haven’t felt this safe since my mom died.”  
  
His chuckle was laced with self-deprecating irony.  “‘M the last bloke you should feel safe with, kitten.”  
  
“Totally not.  You’re way safer than. . .” Her voice dropped away, both of them aware of what she didn’t say.  
  
Will took a deep breath, his hands soothing her automatically.  “Might help if you gave the baddie a name.”  
  
Fingers twisted his shirt, bunching up the black fabric, pinching his skin.  “Don’t wanna.”  
  
“Don’t blame you there.”  
  
He dropped the subject, worried that he’d scare her off.  She seemed poised to run, to cry, to scream. . .  To do anything but what she actually did.  
  
“He’s my sister’s husband.  He,” she paused, swallowing down the rising gorge in her throat.  “He’s a teacher at my school.”  
  
“I hate him.”  
  
“I hate _her_.”  
  
The vehemence didn’t shock him; nor did the revelation of his identity.  
  
“I’m gonna run away.”  
  
It wasn’t a surprise, he’d more than half expected to hear her say that.  What did surprise him were her next words.  
  
“You won’t narc on me, will you?”  
  
“No.  Got no reason to.”    
  
His fingers tilted her chin up, his eyes searching hers.   
  
“How long’s this been happening?”  
  
She didn’t want to look at him.  Didn’t want him to see the shame and ugliness that she was covered in.  Her voice was small and scared when she spoke.  “Since I was twelve.”  
  
Rage erupted in his veins, white-hot and urgent. He wanted to kill the bastard, wanted to spill his blood and bruise and break him the way he’d broken the small girl in his arms.  Every muscle tensed with the need to seek vengeance for her.  To protect her from ever being hurt again.    
  
Will clenched his jaw, barely able to grit out his next question.  “You tell your sister?”  
  
A derisive snicker was her only answer.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, baby, ‘m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s not your fault.”  
  
Will inhaled deeply, bracing himself for her complete rejection after he bared all his sins.  
  
“Kitten,” His throat closed, mouth dried up and the words fought against being released.  Will closed his eyes, searching internally for some strength to see him through this, to be whole even after she hated him.  “Kitten, bastard. . . that did what he did to me, his name’s Liam Angelus.”  
  
Buffy didn’t move, didn’t breathe.  Somehow, she’d known the truth, known they were hurt by the same hands.  She focused on his eyes, reading the guilt and pain etched within his soul.    
  
Her heart broke.  
  
Not for herself, but for the man who’d saved hers.  
  
Tears pooled in her eyes, slipping unnoticed down her cheeks.  
  
“So much pain, Will.”  Her fingertips brushed over his face, gentle and sweet.  “It’s not yours.”  
  
His turn to weep.  To hold onto her like a drowning man seeking a lifeline.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, present day_**  
  
  
He had enough paperwork to last until the end of the year.  Easily.  
  
Case files, lab reports . . . everything he needed to fill in the blanks from before.  
  
Paperwork on all the victims – except the two victims that had blown apart the whole story.  
  
Not for the first time and surely not for the last, he wondered what had happened. _What had happened to the last two victims of Liam Angelus?_  
  
Gunn stared down at the autopsy report, not smiling at the cause of death, but feeling a grim sort of satisfaction, nevertheless.  
  
Bastard deserved so much more than just a knife in the throat.  
  
He flipped over the pages.  His eyes rested on the image of a young blond girl and a small infant.  
  
 _Where are you, Buffy Summers?_  
  
 _Where is Connor?_  
  
 _Are you safe?_  
  
 _Please, God, let them be safe. . . ._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes are as attributed (this time it’s an HIM song, Heartache Every Moment, off the album Deep Shadows and Brilliant Highlights, 2002)


	7. Seven

**_Seven_**  
  
  
  
 ** _Looking down on empty streets, all she can see_**  
 ** _are the dreams all made solid_**  
 ** _are the dreams all made real_**  
  
 ** _all of the buildings, all of those cars_**  
 ** _were once just a dream_**  
 ** _in somebody's head_**  
  
 ** _she pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam_**  
 ** _she pictures a soul_**  
 ** _with no leak at the seam_**  
  
 ** _let’s take the boat out_**  
 ** _wait until darkness_**  
 ** _let's take the boat out_**  
 ** _wait until darkness comes_**  
  
 ** _nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey_**  
 ** _nowhere in the suburbs_**  
 ** _in the cold light of day_**  
  
 ** _there in the midst of it so alive and alone_**  
 ** _words support like bone_**  
  
 ** _dreaming of mercy st._**  
 ** _wear your inside out_**  
 ** _dreaming of mercy_**  
 ** _in your daddy's arms again_**  
 ** _dreaming of mercy st._**  
 ** _'swear they moved that sign_**  
 ** _dreaming of mercy_**  
 ** _in your daddy's arms_**  
  
 ** _pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth_**  
 ** _tugging at the darkness, word upon word_**  
  
 ** _confessing all the secret things in the warm velvet box_**  
 ** _to the priest-he's the doctor_**  
 ** _he can handle the shocks_**  
  
 ** _dreaming of the tenderness-the tremble in the hips_**  
 ** _of kissing Mary's lips_**  
  
 ** _dreaming of mercy st._**  
 ** _wear your insides out_**  
 ** _dreaming of mercy_**  
 ** _in your daddy's arms again_**  
 ** _dreaming of mercy st._**  
 ** _'swear they moved that sign_**  
 ** _looking for mercy_**  
 ** _in your daddy's arms_**  
  
 ** _mercy, mercy, looking for mercy_**  
 ** _mercy, mercy, looking for mercy_**  
  
 ** _Anne, with her father is out in the boat_**  
 ** _riding the water_**  
 ** _riding the waves on the sea_**  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
  
Sunlight streamed through the trees, dappling the two playing in the courtyard. Two heads bent in concentration, the timbre of Spike’s low voice countered by the baby-soft babbles coming from Connor.  
  
Buffy smiled as she watched them.  
  
He might play at being tough and hardened by life, but she knew differently.  
  
Knew the poet’s soul that hid behind the facade.  
  
Knew how he ached for her.  For Connor.  
  
He still fought guilt.  Fought shadows and demons only he could sense.  
  
Believed himself guilty of a crime he hadn’t committed, blaming himself for all those that followed him into hell.  
  
Buffy knew differently.  
  
The guilty one – the devil who’d destroyed them both  – was to blame.  
  
Not Will.  
  
Mock explosions filled the air, Connor’s laughter startling the nearby birds to flight.  
  
Her smile widened.  
  
Despite their start, and the heartache that bonded them, life was good.  
  
Connor whirled around, twirling and laughing, catching sight of her.  “Fee!”  He screamed, running straight for her.  
  
“Fee!  Nook!  See twuck!”  
  
Spike shook his head as the almost three year old wrapped his arms around Buffy’s knees, nearly knocking them both to the ground.  
  
Buffy dropped down, caught up in the baby’s enthusiasm.  
  
She looked over Connor’s head, her eyes unerringly finding Spike’s.  Mouthing ‘I love you’, Buffy hugged the toddler, then opened her arms to beckon her man closer.  
  
They tumbled together on the grass, a tangle of limbs and laughter.  
  
And Buffy knew life was good.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
Drained, spent, still feeling raw and exposed, Spike drew Buffy closer into his embrace.  
  
His muscles jumped and shook, relaxing only when she clung to him.  
  
“Don’t you see . . . if ‘d said somethin’, anythin’. . .”  
  
Her finger brushed over his lips, silencing him.  
  
Tears glinted in her eyes, though a tremulous smile played over her lips.  
  
“No.  Don’t say it.  Don’t even think it.”  Her forehead dropped, replacing her finger.  “It was so not your fault.”  
  
Silence washed over them as he tried to draw air past the lump in his throat.  
  
“I found stuff. . .   Pictures and . . .  He’s been doing this for a long time, I think.”  
  
Buffy straightened, looked into his eyes.  “We have the same monster.”  
  
He could feel the rage building – the need to lash out – to bash and batter and utterly destroy surging through him.  
  
“There was a girl with dark hair and pretty eyes and he took a picture of her, while . . . did stuff and . . he. . .”   She stopped speaking, trying to stem the tears.  “There was a date on the back.”  
  
Spike reached up, forcing his hand to gentle, his fist to open and cup her cheek.  “Go on.”  
  
“It was 1986.”  
  
“Holy fuck.”  He didn’t want to ask.  Really, truly didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t hide anything from her, not anymore.  “What else was there?”  
  
“Some other things.  Jewelry.  A couple of notebooks.  Um. . . a weird looking action figure.”  She shrugged, idly running her hand over his chest.  “A soccer jersey.”   
  
Buffy sat up when he stiffened, her eyes searching his.  “Oh, no.  No.  Oh, Will.”  
  
Something foul and inky dark. . .  a viscous, putrid, stinking mass of anger and hurt swirled in his belly, burbling and growing, threatening to overtake him.  He felt used and abused, his body remembering far more than his brain did, how the touch polluted him.  
  
Will shied away from her, flinching as the sound of her hiccupped crying reached him.  He couldn’t stand to be so exposed, so . . .  His eyes closed and he fought his own tears.  Didn’t want her to see his weakness, his failings.  _Couldn’t. . ._   
  
He pushed her away, exploding off the bed and into a flurry of agitated movement.  _Can’t let her see . . .  Can’t.  Can’t show it. . .  Won’t show._    
  
A startled, pained yelp from the girl on his bed stopped his pacing.  He turned sorrow filled eyes to her, an apology rushing to his lips when he saw her.  “Oh, fuck, kitten.  ‘M sorry.  So sorry.  ‘S all m’fault.”  
  
His hands righted her, helped her to sit and he didn’t dare look into her eyes, didn’t dare face the recrimination and disgust he knew would greet him.  Will sprung away from her before she could recoil, avoiding her too-knowing gaze.  
  
He stood at the doorway, body poised for flight, chest heavy and gasping for untainted air.  Trying to flee from memories and her censure. . . to flee from himself.  He paused, more afraid to turn and face her than to run.    
  
He’d been running too long.    
  
Running from his pain.  Running from his memories. . .  wanting to hide the shame and fear and bury it in a hole.     
  
But he couldn’t leave her.  Couldn’t tear himself away from her.    
  
“Will?”    
  
Creaking and complaining, the bed squawked its protest as she moved and he flinched, hunching his shoulders.  Braced for her rejection and anger, he waited.  
  
“Will. . . please, don’t. . .” Her voice cracked, faltered.  “Please, don’t leave me.  I. . . Will? Look at me, _please_?”  
  
She was closer than he was comfortable with, standing right behind him.  Her hand reached out, brushing against his.  Of their own volition, his fingers captured hers, squeezing them.    
  
“You aren’t . . .   You have to stop blaming yourself.  He was a sick, twisted bastard long before you.”  The words were heated, vehement, and for all that, matter-of-fact.    
  
Will stared down at the floor, his mind blank, listening for once, to his heart.  
  
If he walked away from her now, he’d never be this open again.  Never share with another person what he’d been through, what shaped his pain.    
  
And, he was suddenly afraid, he’d hurt her irreparably.  
  
Gathering his courage, Will turned to face her.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
Buffy couldn’t let him think he was the first.  _Wouldn’t_ let him think that.  
  
The list of things she’d found in a storage box in the attic creeped her.  Raised the flesh on her arms and the back of her neck, like ghostly fingers running across her skin.  It just confirmed everything she knew about him.  
  
 _Liam Angelus._  
  
Her sister’s husband.  
  
Her tormentor.    
  
The sick, twisted, depraved demon who touched her.  The man who hurt and damaged everything he touched, tainting everything with his foulness.  
  
She’d seen him when she was younger, smaller.  When he’d first appeared in their lives, tutoring her sister, who’d been home sick with mononucleosis.  Watched him warily as he fooled everyone. . .  Especially her sister.  
  
Darla had been just stupid enough to believe him when he lied to her.  
  
Even stupider when he swore he’d love only her.  
  
And worse, when she turned a blind eye to what he did to _her_.     
  
So she told Will. . . told him about the pictures, the things – the trophies he’d kept.  Had to make him understand that he wasn’t the first, that her pain wasn’t his fault.  Would never be his fault.  
  
Never, _ever_ be his fault.  
  
Wasn’t then, wouldn’t be now.  
  
She hadn’t expected his reaction, though, when she told him about the soccer jersey.  Hadn’t realized . . . hadn’t even made the connection.  
  
But, _oh God_ , the look in his eyes, when the words left her mouth.  The pain, the . . .  _Pain_.   
  
She couldn’t imagine how much it cost him to admit what had happened.  To be a man and to say the things he had, to have lived through what he had. . .   Buffy _couldn’t . ._   
  
His pain constricted her heart, made her ache and weep for him.    
  
She wept, because she couldn’t not cry for the loss. . .  Couldn’t contain it inside.  Needed to shed the tears because he wouldn’t.  
  
Her tears sparked something in him, set torch to some part of him that smoldered and burned, igniting him to fierce movement.  He exploded, shoving her roughly away, so hard she bounced, teetering on the edge of the mattress.    
  
Broken wrist halting her fall, Buffy yelped, though she tried to suppress it.  She rolled to her side, cradling the injured limb between her breasts.  Pain, lightening sharp and quick, lanced through her, blocking everything.    
  
Will was at her side in an instant, apologies tumbling from his lips, even as his hands sought to soothe away the pain.  His words meant nothing, not when her body, conditioned to accept a blow instead of a caress, flinched and shied from his touch.  
  
“Oh, fuck, kitten.  ‘M sorry.  So sorry.  ‘S all m’fault.”  
  
Too late she realized how her involuntary action wounded him.  Damage had already been done.  
  
He stopped, paces from the door, poised and ready to flee, every line of muscle screaming with repressed anger and hurt.    
  
 _Oh God, he’s gonna leave me. . . and I can’t face this alone.  I can’t let him think that he’s nothing, that he’s worthless. . . that what happened makes him less than what he really is. . ._   “Will?”  
  
 _Please, don’t go. . ._ She moved, trying to get up before he fled.  “Will. . . please, don’t. . . Please, don’t leave me.  I. . . Will? Look at me, please?”  
  
Buffy knew she was begging and didn’t care.  There was no way she was going to let him run. . .  Not when he’d taken on her shame.  Not when he’d saved her.  She reached for him, needing to share the strength he’d given her.    
  
Her fingers brushed across the back of his knuckles and let out a relieved sigh when his fingers grabbed hold of hers.  
  
Searching for something to say, anything to make him understand . . . to help him believe that the fault wasn’t his, none of it, Buffy held onto his hand tighter.  Without real thought, the words tumbled from her, her voice, for once, not broken and wavering.    
  
“You aren’t . . .   You have to stop blaming yourself.  He was a sick, twisted bastard long before you.”    
  
He froze, unmoving and solid, absorbing the words of her declaration.  Buffy held her breath, hoping beyond any other hope she’d ever held, that he _listened_ to her.  That he more than heard what she was saying.    
  
The breath whooshed from her when he turned, his red-rimmed eyes searching her face.  “You almost make me believe it, kitten.”  
  
A nervous twitter bubbled up.  “Almost?”  
  
Buffy poked him, right where his heart beat.  “Believe it, buster, coz it’s the truth.  He’s a sick, fucking bastard.  And I hope he rots in hell for a hundred years.”  
  
From somewhere, Will managed to dredge up a chuckle.  “Only a hundred?”  
  
“Um. . . I wouldn’t be all sad if he rotted forever.”  
  
“Christ, kitten, you _are_ bloodthirsty.”  He wrapped his big hand around her finger, pulling her close.

   
Buffy didn’t shy from the contact.  For some reason she wasn’t going to question, he didn’t scare her, didn’t make her feel dirty and diseased. . . and she liked his touch.  She leaned into his chest, her good arm wrapped around his waist.  “Only sometimes.”  
  
Neither one moved for long moments, not until a hearty yawn cracked her face.  Will carelessly dropped a kiss on her crown.  “C’mon, my fierce kitten, let’s get back to bed.”  
      
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, present day_**  
  
Some of the files were big, thick and weighty with information.  A few of them had nothing more than bare bones.    
  
There was no rhyme or reason why some of them stood out more than others.  
  
DNA evidence had been run on the items stored in evidence, revealing more names, some that Charles Gunn had been shocked to see.  
  
He’d joined the force as soon as he could, following in the steps of his father . . . but nothing had prepared him for the sheer volume of . . .  For the number of victims attached to this case and for the particulars of it.  
  
Liam Angelus had been one sick mother fucker.  
  
As far as he could tell, the first victim had been a dark-haired girl, identified only as ‘Jenny’ in a picture dated 1986.  
  
Not for the first time, he wondered what had happened to her. . . What her story might have been. . .  Had she suffered the same fate as some of the others?  
  
Had he killed her?  
  
Unfortunately for his case, Gunn had no way of knowing.  Angelus had led an interesting life.  Born in Ireland to a Greek father and Irish mother, he’d lived in both countries.  And as a professional soccer player, he’d traveled.  Extensively.  
  
The Irish government had been very helpful, ferreting out information and providing him with files on some of the victims.  Two males and three females had come forward, giving statements about Angelus.  
  
But Gunn knew that was only the tip of this iceberg.    
  
They’d identified at least seven victims in Sunnydale, one he’d never expected to see at all.  
  
It all made sense, though, now that he had more of the story.  Why William Pratt had fled  in their junior year, never to be heard from again.  Why he refused to give Gunn any of his details.  
  
Why Darla Summers had married the bastard. . .   
  
Why Andrew Wells had committed suicide four years ago. . .   
  
Why Andrew’s older brother, Tucker, had changed overnight from a Harvard-bound student to a drug addict and small-time criminal. . .   
  
But it still didn’t explain what happened to Buffy Summers. . .    
  
Or Connor Angelus.  
  
Gunn hoped with every fiber of his being that when William Pratt had disappeared again two years ago – he’d somehow managed to rescue Buffy and Connor.  That even now they were safe, hidden away somewhere. . .   
  
Free from Liam.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason I picked this particular tune is because for the last three (maybe even four?) chapters this is the song that keeps echoing in my head and well, quite obviously the muse feels the need to include it. And therefore, so it is. From the first non-eponymous album recorded by Peter Gabriel, from way back in the 80's (and yes, it’s that album that made him an international superstar) – rightfully so.


	8. Eight

_**Eight**_  
  
 _ **Away, away you broken heart you**_  
 _ **Leave my chest like a hollow cave**_  
 _ **Stand me somewhere near the ocean**_  
 _ **I will wait there wave after wave**_  
 _ **Away, away you broken heart you**_  
 _ **Who can heal you when you're like this**_  
 _ **There's no angel born in heaven**_  
 _ **There's no lover's healing kiss**_  
 _ **Away, away you broken heart you**_  
 _ **Lose yourself in the darkest night**_  
 _ **If the stars can take your sorrow**_  
 _ **Let them take it and that's alright**_  
 _ **Away, away you broken heart you**_  
 _ **Leave my breast like a hollow cave**_  
 _ **Stand me somewhere near the ocean**_  
 _ **I will wait there wave after wave.**_  
  
  
  
  
 _ **London, present day**_  
  
  
Will stared down at the over-sized envelope in his hands, debating whether to even open it.  Whatever news was between the folds could keep.  
  
 _Forever._  
  
Only two good things had come out of Sunnydale . . . and both of them were upstairs, still sleeping.  
  
He didn’t want to see anything his uncle had to send in a bigger than normal package.  Didn’t want to bring it into the house.  
  
Didn’t want to disturb their fragile peace.  
  
 _Why the hell couldn’t this have gotten lost?_  
                  
There was no way he was going to open that inside the door.  No way.  Ripping the top off, he stared down into the manila folds, reluctance gnawing at his belly.  _Fuck._    
  
Dumping the contents out seemed easier than sticking his hand in and Will gaped as newspaper clippings fluttered to the ground at his feet.    
  
 _What the bloody hell is all this?_  
  
He bent down, retrieving the dark papers.  A headline caught his eye and Will blanched and froze, not wanting to touch anything else.  
  
 ** _Pedophile Teacher Killed in Prison_**  
  
The words burned into his brain, indelibly imprinted.  His fingers brushed over the paper, almost tracing the words.  He couldn’t focus on anything but the headline.    
  
It was true then, what Rupert had told him a couple of days ago.    
  
 _He_ was dead.  Gone.    
  
Will knew he should feel something.    
  
Some emotion beyond the twisting of his stomach.    
  
 _Relief_ – something.  
  
The monster that had destroyed him utterly was gone.  The demon that still haunted his nights . . .  The thief that left shadows in Buffy’s eyes . . . was gone.  
  
Killed by someone else’s hands.  
  
Will wondered if his killer knew what Liam Angelus had done, how many lives he’d destroyed.  
  
If the killer knew Liam Angelus had taken everything from him. . . and gifted him with something infinitely more important.  
  
If not for Liam Angelus, he’d be alone, unloved. . . and fearing he was unlovable.    
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, twelve years in the past_**  
  
Will refused to look at his mother.  Couldn’t hide the pain and the hurt he knew was pooling in his eyes.  Didn’t dare show her the shame.  
  
He couldn’t speak.  Said only one thing to her on his way to his room, then slammed the door behind him, locking her out.  
  
Locking everyone out.  
  
There was no way he was going back to that school.   No way he’d wait for that . .  _demon_ to come after him again.    
  
He hated it here.  
  
Hated everything about this place.    
  
Never felt comfortable, even when he’d made the team, because while it had been his dream to be part of a team, here, it had become his worst nightmare.    
  
This place wasn’t home.  Wasn’t safe.  
  
Suddenly, he longed for the house he’d grown up in, the smell of London and the noise of Camden Road all around him.    
  
Will stared at the posters on his wall and made a decision.  
  
 _He was going home._  
  
 _Now._   Tonight, if he could.  
  
Grabbing everything he couldn’t live without, Will stuffed it all into his backpack, and then into the oversized bag holding his football gear.    
  
Moving with a frenzy, he ravaged his room, ruthlessly setting everything in disarray.  
  
Passport, credit card, money . . . everything he needed was stowed in the front of his backpack.  Now all he had to do was wait.  
  
Wait until his mother was asleep.  Wait until his uncle was snoring steadily, his glasses barely hooked on the end of his nose. . .   
  
He’d sneak out then.  
  
 _Leave._  
  
Be in London before they knew he’d gone.  
  
Will sat on the floor, his back leaning against the bed, his mind empty save for one thought.  
  
 _Home._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
The incessant phone ringing pestered him, wrecking his sleeping and waking moments.  He knew who it was.  After two weeks, and no doubt a trace of his credit card, his mother managed to find him.  
  
Didn’t matter.  
  
He wasn’t returning to the States.  _Ever._  
  
And if she came to London?    
  
He’d go.  Head right back to Eton, a place he never should have left.  
  
William stared at his reflection in the mirror.  
  
His mousy brown curls flopped over his forehead and he brushed his hair back, away from his face.  Self-hatred surged within, cresting as he punched the silvered glass in front of him.  
  
 _Never._  
  
 _Ever._  
  
No fucking way was he ever going to let anyone take advantage of him again.  
  
The glass shattered, exploding in little slivers all over the sink and his shirt.    
  
Whirling on his heel, he fled the bathroom, and then the house.  
  
He wasn’t ever going to let anyone touch him like that again.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _London, ten years in the past_**  
  
The room spun on its axis, the walls and windows pitching and rolling with every breath.    
  
He was drunk.  And stoned.  
  
Will squinted into the sunlight, shielding his eyes and reeling back from the bright light.    
  
“William?  What on earth is wrong with you?”  
  
He shied away, heading back into the darkness of his bedroom.  “Go ‘way.”  
  
The strident, worried tones of his mother followed him further into the house.  He rocked into a doorway, bouncing off the jambs.  “Leave me alone.  ‘M tired.”  
  
“Drunk is more like it.”  Her voice was right behind him and he flinched, whirling around too fast for his inebriated state.  
  
“So?  What of it?”    
  
“William. . .” She tried to touch him, reaching out a hand to steady him, to scold him. . . and he moved away again, pushing her back.  
  
“Jus’ leave me the hell alone, Mum.  Don’t need this. . . jus’ leave me alone.”  
  
“Why won’t you let me help you, William?  I’m worried about you.”    
  
He snorted his disbelief, almost choking on the concern she so lately decided to show.  “Right.  Sure you are.”  
  
Will dropped down onto his bed, resting his arm over his eyes, hiding from her censure.    
  
Her stare could put Medusa to shame.  The heat of it roasted him from the doorway and he squinted at her.  “Why’re you here anyway?”  
  
“I’ve got to see some doctors.”    
  
Part of him wanted to care, wanted to know what she wasn’t saying . . .  but he didn’t bother to ask, his own anger drawn tight against his chest.  “Right.  I’ll shove off then.”  
  
Will rolled to his side, preparing to get up.  Her next words forestalled his movement.  “Don’t.  I’m going into hospital in the morning.”  
  
When more silence greeted her announcement, Anne sighed and contemplated her only child.  “I do love you, William.  And I just thought you should know.”  
  
“Yeah.”    
  
He didn’t regret not repeating her sentiments until she was gone, and by then, it was far too late.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
“You don’t have to come with me.  You an’ the boy could stay home.”  
  
Spike paced down the narrow hallway on the ground floor, his voice wafting up the stairs to Buffy.    
“I’m almost ready.”  She appeared at the top of the stairs, shoes in hand.  “Gimme five more minutes.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
At the other end of the hallway, Connor stood staring at him.  “Da?  Where Fee?”  
  
“Gettin’ her shoes, mate.  Gonna be a while.”  
  
Every time he looked at the child, gratitude for the strength of Summers genes flooded him.  Connor looked nothing like his father, instead carrying the elfin features of his maternal side, even down to his bright blue eyes.  
  
Will brushed past the toddler, heading for the sitting room off the kitchen, where the big screen television was.    
  
Little feet pitter-patted after him, right on his heels.  “Da?”  
  
“What, little man?”  
  
The boy headed straight for the selection of child-friendly movies.  “Cules.”  
  
Not knowing how long Buffy was going to take, Spike simply grabbed the disk and popped it into the player.  Connor was sitting on the couch, his favorite blanket wrapped around his head and his feet splayed out.    
  
The singing and dancing on the screen drowned out the weight of tears in his heart.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
  
“Tell me the best thing that ever happened to you.”  
  
He’d thought she was asleep.  Quiet for so long, breathing deep and even, every movement stilled; her question startled him.  “Wha?”  
  
A half grin broke over her features and her eyes sparkled with mirth.  “No more sad talk.  Tell me something happy.”  
  
“Happy?  Don’t rightly know if I’ve had many of those.”  Spike shrugged, feigning indifference.    
  
She was a tenacious thing, his Buffy, and she didn’t let him hide from her questions.  He should have known; the girl didn’t let him hide from the pain, she wasn’t about to let the good stuff stay hidden either.  
  
“Best thing.”    
  
He pondered the thought for a moment, discarding all the tainted memories of Sunnydale.  His childhood had been marred by his father’s battle with cancer, his teenaged years with abuse.  He’d spent at least two years drowning his sorrows in drink. . . only stopping when his mother died.  
  
Spike didn’t dare voice the thought aloud, the revelation that had sprung full blown in his thoughts, but he felt it.  Gods above how he felt it. . .   _Finding you. ._ .    
  
“C’mon, there has to be something that makes you smile.”  Punctuating her question with a little poke at his chest, her smile got brighter.   “Tell me.”  
  
Despite the ache in his heart, he couldn’t help responding.  “Bloody hell, woman.  No poking.”  
  
Buffy sat up straighter, honing in on the little squirmy thing he did to avoid her finger.  “Are you ticklish?”  She poked him again, this time further down his side.    
  
Though he tried, Spike couldn’t master his reflexive jerk.  “You are!”  
  
“Kitten. . .” The warning was real, his voice dropping to a deep rumble in his chest.    
  
If anything her eyes grew wider, listening to that growl.  Artlessly, she dropped her head onto his chest.  “That’s my new favorite sound.”  
  
A deep sigh rattled her and she settled against him.  “You make me smile.”  
  
His hand clasped hers, bringing it to his lips.  Spike unfurled her fist, let his lips rest there; then curled her fingers again.  
  
He didn’t bother to answer her.  
  
He didn’t think she needed it anymore.  
  
 ** _She knew._**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is a song written by Phil Stewart and this particular version is sung by Christie Moore (love that man!) The title is Away Ye Broken Heart.


	9. Nine

**_Nine_**  
  
 ** _There is no turning back from this unending path of mine_**  
 ** _Serpentine and black it stands before my eyes_**  
 ** _To hell and back it will lead me once more_**  
 ** _It's all I have as I stumble in and out of grace_**  
 ** _I walk through the gardens of dying light_**  
 ** _And cross all the rivers deep and dark as the night_**  
 ** _Searching for a reason why time would've passed us by_**  
 ** _With every step I take the less I know myself_**  
 ** _And every vow I break on my way towards your heart_**  
 ** _Countless times I've prayed for forgiveness_**  
 ** _But God's just laughed in my face_**  
 ** _And this path remains leading me into solitude's arms_**  
 ** _I see through the darkness my way back home_**  
 ** _The journey seems endless but I'll carry on_**  
 ** _The shadows will rise and they will fall_**  
 ** _And our night drowns in dawn_**  
 ** _Amidst all the tears there's a smile_**  
 ** _That all angels will greet with an envious song_**  
 ** _One look into stranger's eyes and I know where I belong_**  
 ** _I walk through the gardens of dying light_**  
 ** _And cross all the rivers deep and dark as the night_**  
 ** _Searching for a reason why time would've passed us by_**  
 ** _Oh, I see through the darkness my way back home_**  
 ** _The journey seems endless but I’ll carry on_**  
 ** _The shadows will rise and they will fall_**  
 ** _And our night drowns in dawn, yeah_**  
 ** _The shadows they rise and they fall, yeah_**  
 ** _And the night drowns in dawn_**  
 ** _(And the path goes on...)_**  
  
  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
Will knew what he was thinking was crazy.  Knew it.    
  
Yet the knowing didn’t stop the thoughts from swirling in his head, circling round and round and ending in the same spot, over and over.  
  
“Kitten, how would you leave, if you could?”  
  
She didn’t move at first, letting the thump-thump of his heart steady her.  “I’d leave this place, go as far away as I could get.”  
  
He didn’t say anything in response, wondering if she realized how futile running would be.  She’d end up on the streets, or worse.  
  
Will wasn’t going to let that happen; _Spike_ wasn’t going to, either.    
  
“Could help you, if you wanted.”  
  
Buffy looked up at him, disbelief in her eyes.  “Why would you do that?”  
  
A strange sort of smile crossed his lips and he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin.  “Lots of reasons.”  
  
“But why?”  She pulled away from him, curling in on herself.  “I’m not anything to you, I’m just  – so why?”  
  
Her back was to him.  She was poised to run, perched on the edge of the bed, wary, hiding herself from him.    
  
 _Why. . .  Silliest question in the world, pet. . ._   
  
“Because.”  He started, his throat closing with emotions he’d locked up for years.  Will moved to sit behind her, his arms wrapping around her slight form, shielding her.  Protecting her.   
  
“You’re not nothing.  You’re. . .” Will’s eyes drifted closed, courage deserting him for a moment.  “Christ, Buffy, you’re. . .”  
  
She leaned into him, stealing his strength, his warmth.   He held her close, cradled against his heart and for the first time, he wanted to hold on to someone and never let go.     
  
“Because I don’t want to let you go.  Because I want to hold onto you.  Because you don’t deserve what’s happened. . .  Hundreds of reasons, kitten, an’ it all boils down to you.”  
  
“ _Me?_ ”  She squeaked out the word, her eyes huge in her head.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He put every emotion he was feeling into that one word and she must have sensed it.  Her eyes slanted toward him, gauging his expression.  
  
Buffy turned in his arms, their noses practically touching.  “I don’t have – I don’t have much money.”  
  
“Money’s the one thing I don’t have to worry about, sweetheart.  I’ll see us through.”  
  
She continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her words running together in a rush.  “He only gives me exactly what I need for lunch or other stuff.  I’ve been skipping lunch for two months and all I’ve got is six hundred.”  
  
Her good hand was balled into a fist, nervously running over her thigh.  Spike took pity on her agitation, laying his palm over her hand.  “Kitten, I’ve got enough money.”  
  
“I’ll pay you back.”  
  
He dumped her on the bed, impatience ruling his emotions.  The need to get up and move was goading him, but he at least owed her something of an explanation.  “Got more money than I know what to do with.  Old family money, only ‘ve got no family but Giles.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“So let me do this, yeah?”  
  
Tears spilled from her eyes.  Her lower lip wobbled. Her head dropped, the long blond strands shielding her face from his gaze.  A barely whispered ‘thank you’ echoed in his ears.  
  
Spike crossed the distance between them, scooping her up from the bed.  Buffy’s arms wrapped around him, her face buried against his shoulder.    
  
He held her long after her tears had dried.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
  
“How come the nicest park we’ve ever been in is really a cemetery?”  Buffy trailed behind Will, her eyes shielded behind dark sunglasses.  
  
Will laughed, shifting Connor’s weight, then turned around to walk backwards.  “Dunno, pet.”  
  
“Really, look at all the cool places to picnic and those funny stone buildings.”  Her eyes honed in on a particularly picturesque corner.  “Look!”  
  
“I see.”  Will shrugged again.  “Guess someone wanted it to be beautiful.”  
  
“It totally worked.”  
  
The mood sobered a bit, as they both reflected on the reason for this pilgrimage. They rarely came here, the past was too hard for him to face. He wasn’t even sure why they’d decided to come today.  

  
It certainly wasn’t out of some . . .  It was because he _needed_ to verbalize, _needed_ to be at peace with his past, and his mother’s part in what happened.  He needed some closure with her. . .   
  
And he needed to let her know that he’d finally begun healing.  
  
Spike reached over to grasp Buffy’s hand, squeezing it gently.  She glanced at him shyly, blush staining her cheeks.   _Two years in London, and she’s still my golden girl. . ._  
  
“Still not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”    
  
Her blush only deepened, and she coyly dropped her gaze.  “Please.  This place is gorgeous.  Everything about England is . . .  I love it here.”  
  
“Really?”  He’d wondered, now and again, if she missed California and the sunshine, though she never said so.    
  
“Really.  I wasn’t happy there.  And well, I am here.”  She tugged him closer, a smile brightening her whole face.  “But I’d be happy anywhere with you.”  
  
“Even in Alaska?”  
  
“Ahuh.  I’d be really cold, but I’d be happy.”  
  
He laughed along with her then, because he couldn’t stop himself.  “Well, don’t think we’ll be going there anytime soon, okay?”  
  
“Fine by me.”  Buffy swung their hands playfully.  “So are you?”  
  
“Am I what?”    
  
“Happy?”  
  
He took a moment to think, his eyes darting from her to the toddler and back again.  “Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before.”  
  
“Oh, Will.”  She waved her hand in front of her face, airily trying to brush away tears.  “I’m so glad.”  
  
“Me too, sweetheart.  Me too.”  
  
He was.    
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**

  
She’d learned fear.  
  
Learned to be frightened of sleeping, to be alone in the house without _her_ present.  
  
Learned to be afraid of waking to find someone in bed with her.  
  
Learned to lock her door, her feelings.  
  
The lessons had been to harsh – far too harsh – not to learn.  
  
And yet, here she was, trusting.  
  
Believing.  
  
Disregarding all the horrible things she’d learned from _him_.  
  
Buffy snuggled closer to the body next to her, swimming toward wakefulness.  His warm breath on the back of her neck didn’t terrify her, didn’t bring back horrific memories.  
  
No.  
  
There was nothing at all scary about sleeping next to William.  Not even when his arms slipped around her waist, or when his legs tangled with hers.  
  
All she felt was safe.  
  
Protected.  
  
 _Loved?_  
  
She didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to go back . . . didn’t want to realize this was only a break from the badness.  
  
Being with William – a wistful smile crossed her features at the memory of his smile – gave Buffy courage.  
  
She wasn’t going to stay.  
  
This last beating – was **_the_ ** last.  
  
 _ **He** _ wasn’t ever going to touch her again.  
  
Not **_ever_**.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 _How can she look at me that way?  How can she look at any man with such trust?_  
  
Spike marveled at her capacity for trust, despite the wounds.  Physical scars healed, leaving only traces behind; mere hints of what happened.  
  
It was the _other_ wounds. . .  Wounds he knew intimately.  Those wounds never healed.  
  
He couldn’t help himself.  She drew him, because despite the darkness surrounding her, she remained. . . Buffy was light, not a harsh, blinding glare, but instead she . . . shone with warmth, like Christmas morning.  Like the sound of children’s laughter.  
  
Like home.  
  
He’d come back here – to the place he’d sworn never to return – because some impulse resonated.  Something had tugged and tugged until he could no longer resist.  
  
So he’d come back.  
  
And not twenty-four hours  – hell, not even an hour – and she . . . Buffy had been the first person he’d seen.  It had been her small, slight form crossing his sights upon his arrival.  
  
She’d haunted him.  
  
From just a mere glance.  
  
She was still haunting him.  
  
Will wondered, as her scent teased his nose, if it would always be so.  
  
Perhaps her pain had called to him, her spirit seeking out the one person able to assist her. . .   
  
She was stirring, fighting the release of slumber and Will tightened his hold on her.  
  
He didn’t want to release her.  Didn’t want to let her go.  
  
He’d agreed to help her – promised he would.  
  
But Will also knew they had to be careful.  
  
She was only fifteen.  
  
If he was smart, he’d help her leave now.  
  
If he was smarter, he’d walk away once she was free.  
  
“I have to go back.”  
  
      
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _London, seven years in the past_**  
  


_She was dead._  
  
 _How could she be dead?  How?_  
  
She was fine, just yesterday – sitting up, talking.  
  
Anne Pratt, aged fifty-five, mother of William.    
  
Gone.  In a whisper.  
  
Between heartbeats. . .  One beat, then no more.  
  
Massive heart attack, the doctors said.  
  
But it wasn’t her heart.  
  
 _Wasn’t._  
  
Her heart was fine.  The cancer was killing her – was the killer inside.  
  
Will stared at the doctor, blue eyes distant, unfocused.  
  
 _My mother’s dead. . .   How?_  
  
All the angry, hurtful – hateful – words he’d whirled at her echoed in his brain, looping endlessly, adding guilt.  
  
 _Mum?_  
  
Will snapped back into his mind when the doctor stepped aside.   Absurdly inappropriate laughter bubbled in his throat.  The man was wearing a striped shirt and a wildly mismatched tartan tie.    
  
An angry smirk teased his lips, masking the laughter, and Will had to turn away, lest the laughter overtake him.  
  
It did anyway, only to end in a choked sob.  
  
 _Mum’s dead, an’ ‘m laughing._  
  
Parched dry, Will stared at the body that had given him life.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pratt, we did everything possible to revive your mother.”  
  
He tuned out the doctor, knowing there would be no comfort.  Naught but empty words.  
  
Like his life.  
  
His mother was . . .   
  
_Dead._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**

  
  
He realized the slight craziness bringing Buffy and Connor to the cemetery to picnic with his dead mother.  But Will almost didn’t care.  
  
After Buffy’s big news, he needed to . . . wanted to contemplate his past.  
  
Reconnect. . .   
  
Forgive, absolve, and let go.  
  
His mother hadn’t known – about _him_ – he’d never told her.  
  
Never forgiven her for not protecting him.  Not knowing how bruised and scarred he was.  
  
In the long years since her death, he’d never forgiven her.  
  
Barely visited her grave.  
  
It was time, though. . .   
  
Time to forgive.  
  
Time to try and let go. . .  To stop dwelling on what happened – to both of them – and live.  
  
For each other.  
  
For Connor.  
  
For the future Buffy carried. . .   
  
For _them_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is The Path by HIM from the album (CD) Love Metal.


	10. Tenth

**_Ten_**  
  
 ** _Take a look at my body_**  
 ** _Look at my hands_**  
 ** _There's so much here_**  
 ** _That I don't understand_**  
 ** _Your face saving promises_**  
 ** _Whispered like prayers_**  
 ** _I don't need them_**  
 ** _I don't need them_**  
 ** _I've been treated so wrong_**  
 ** _I've been treated so long_**  
 ** _As if I'm becoming untouchable_**  
 ** _Contempt loves the silence_**  
 ** _It thrives in the dark_**  
 ** _With fine winding tendrils_**  
 ** _That strangle the heart_**  
 ** _They say that promises_**  
 ** _Sweeten the blow_**  
 ** _But I don't need them_**  
 ** _No, I don't need them_**  
 ** _I've been treated so wrong_**  
 ** _I've been treated so long_**  
 ** _As if I'm becoming untouchable_**  
 ** _I'm a slow dying flower_**  
 ** _Frost killing hour_**  
 ** _The sweet turning sour_**  
 ** _And untouchable_**  
 ** _O, I need_**  
 ** _The darkness_**  
 ** _The sweetness_**  
 ** _The sadness_**  
 ** _The weakness_**  
 ** _I need this_**  
 ** _I need_**  
 ** _A lullaby_**  
 ** _A kiss goodnight_**  
 ** _Angel sweet_**  
 ** _Love of my life_**  
 ** _O, I need this_**  
 ** _Do you remember the way_**  
 ** _That you touched me before_**  
 ** _All the trembling sweetness_**  
 ** _I loved and adored?_**  
 ** _Your face saving promises_**  
 ** _Whispered like prayers_**  
 ** _I don't need them_**  
 ** _No, I don't need them_**  
 ** _O, I need_**  
 ** _The darkness_**  
 ** _The sweetness_**  
 ** _The sadness_**  
 ** _The weakness_**  
 ** _I need this_**  
 ** _I need_**  
 ** _A lullaby_**  
 ** _A kiss goodnight_**  
 ** _The angel sweet_**  
 ** _Love of my life_**  
 ** _I need this_**  
 ** _Is it dark enough?_**  
 ** _Can you see me?_**  
 ** _Do you want me?_**  
 ** _Can you reach me?_**  
 ** _Or I'm leaving_**  
 ** _You better shut your mouth_**  
 ** _Hold your breath_**  
 ** _Kiss me now you'll catch my death_**  
 ** _O, I mean it_**  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
  
It was so hard.  Walking away from him was the hardest thing she’d ever done.  
  
Buffy refused to look back.  
  
Wouldn’t turn around.  
  
Couldn’t.  
  
If she turned around, she’d never go forward.  There were things she needed.  Things she wanted.  
  
Her mother’s rings.  
  
Her stuffed pig.  
  
Pictures.  
  
It would be safe.  _He_ wasn’t home – wouldn’t be home for days.  
  
For her own sake, Buffy needed to say goodbye.  To try, one last time, to convince Darla to leave him.  To get out.  
  
Time to try and save her sister.  
  
She had to try.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
He didn’t want to let her go.  
  
Was afraid she’d disappear the second she stepped out of sight.  Afraid she was some wonderful dream his brain conjured up, to ease his loneliness.  To give him a reason to go on, to keep living.  
  
His belly roiled with apprehension, with fear.  
  
Grey shadows clung to the last vestiges of night, shrouding her form as she stepped over the broken flagstones.  
  
Each step away from him echoed in his heart.  
  
Will was certain this was a very bad idea.  
  
 _How did it get so tangled?_  
  
 _How did she become necessary in two bloody days?_  
  
 _What the hell am I doing?_  
  
 _How can I let her go for two hours?_  
  
He refused to think ahead.  Refused to worry about getting her away from here.  From this place.    
  
From the monster that haunted his nights.    
  
The screen door shrieked, protesting her entrance into the house.  Will swallowed hard, fighting the sudden dryness of his mouth.    
  
He wanted to race after her, pull her back outside.  Convince her to forget about everything in this place.  To just run, leave it all behind.  
  
To be safe.  
  
Will fought the urge to follow her, instead turning aside to wait out the two miserable hours.  
  
He’d promised her he’d come back.  Promised to wait two hours.  
  
Didn’t mean it made him happy.  
  
Didn’t mean he wouldn’t worry.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
The door slammed shut behind her, the sound ominous and final.  Rough hands grabbed her, fingers digging into her skin. Buffy struggled, breaking the hold.  
  
“Where the hell have you been?”  
  
 _He_ loomed over her, angry lines around his mouth and eyes.  “Where?”  
  
Defiance swirled through her.  “Out.”  
  
His big hand landed on her cheek, the force of the blow rocking her back.  “Don’t give me any lip.  Where the hell have you been?”  
  
She slowly faced him, drawing out the moment as long as she dared.  “I told you.  I was out.”  
  
“It’s barely five o’clock in the morning.  You’re fifteen years old.  Where the fuck have you been?”  
  
“Like you really care?”  Finding courage from somewhere, she stepped closer.  “I was out.”  
  
This time, it was his fist that struck her face, knocking her to the floor.  He crouched down.  “Wrong answer, Buffy.  Where the fuck were you?”  
  
She didn’t bother answering him again.  Nothing would placate him, and she refused to tell him the truth.    
  
 _He’s home.  Where’s the car?  I didn’t see the car –_   
  
His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her up close to his face.  Spit hit her face as he questioned her, his breath hot and stale.    
  
On his feet now, Liam pulled her up, letting her feet dangle in the air.    
  
She tried pushing him away, tried to ward off the beating, but he was stronger.    
  
And she was already weak.  Already bruised.  
  
 _Oh, God.  He’s gonna kill me this time._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
Spike stared at his cell phone, unable to make the call he needed to.    
  
Somehow he had to figure out how to get Buffy away from Sunnydale.  Away from California.    
  
Away from _him_.  
  
Up until this moment, he’d been at a loss, unable to come with a decent plan.  
  
But now, staring down at the number on the display screen, an idea surfaced.    
  
It was risky, hinging on several factors. . .  But it could work.  
  
And she’d be safe.  
  
Once in England, she’d be safe.  
  
His name and position would ensure it.  
  
He just had to get them to England.  
  
He’d bring her home.  To London.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
  
Muffled noises woke Darla, the walls shaking from the sounds.  Bleary-eyed and half-asleep she shuffled into the living room.  
  
Stopped in the doorway, unable to make sense.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Her husband looked up, his fist poised to strike her sister.  She was naked from the waist up, her ankles tied together somehow.    
  
“Go back to bed.”  
  
Shaking her head, Darla couldn’t move.  “No.  Don’t do this.  She’s  –  _Don’t!_ ”  
  
His fist fell again, slamming into Buffy’s side.  She curled up, whimpering softly.  
  
“Liam!”  
  
She’d suspected.  Known, deep down, this is what happened when her back was turned.    
  
 _Known_ he beat Buffy.  
  
He beat _both_ of them.  
  
Something broke within her.  
  
Something dark and dangerous.  
  
He was hurting her baby sister.  The only person beside Connor who didn’t think she was trash. . .  
  
Darla moved, grabbing the first thing she put her hands on.  Lifting the vase over her head, she slammed it into Liam’s back.  
  
She knew, even as she did, he’d turn on her.  
  
He didn’t disappoint.  
  
      
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Spike shoved the last of his clothes in the duffel bag he was using as a suitcase.  One last look around the room showed him everything was clean.  
  
Thirty minutes to go, but he couldn’t help himself.  He threw the duffel in the trunk.  
  
He was going to wait for her outside the house.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
Buffy crawled away, searching for her shirt.   _It’s here somewhere. . .  Gotta get out.  Spike’s coming.  He’s coming._  
  
 _He’ll be here soon._  
  
Something wet and warm splashed onto her cheek.  Buffy whimpered, wiping it off with her injured hand.    
  
 _Don’t look.  Don’t._  
  
Someone was screaming, shrill noises bouncing off the walls.  
  
Grunts.  
  
The smack of flesh, the dull thud of something being hit caught her attention.  Buffy lifted her head, trying hard to focus her eyes.  
  
She wished she’d kept her eyes closed.  
  
 _Oh, God.  No.  Please._  
  
 _Spike?_  
  
Buffy never realized it was her own voice screaming.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
She didn’t remember Connor until she crawled over his legs.  
  
 _Oh, god. . .  Oh, god.  No.  Please._  
  
 _Wake up, baby boy._  
  
Her hands closed around his tiny form, shielding his body.  
  
 _Connor?  Oh, God. . .  Connor, please. . ._   
  
She slid across the floor, trying to escape Liam’s feet, holding her cast over the baby’s back.  
  
The baby was quiet.  _Too_ quiet.  
  
Tucking his small head against her breasts, Buffy wept.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 _Something’s wrong._  
  
As he drove down Revello Drive, the sense of disquiet – the unease – grew.  It skittered over his back with icy fingers, tightening his shoulders and shrinking his balls.  
  
William remembered that feeling.  
  
Remembered it all too well.  
  
      
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, twelve years in the past_**  
  
  
Blood pounded in his temples, throbbing in time with his racing heart.    
  
He’d never felt this way – never done anything to be this elated over.    
  
They’d won.   
  
On the strength of his skill at football – they’d won.    
  
He, William Pratt, had done something wonderful.  Something athletic.  Something worth crowing about.   
  
He’d scored the winning goal.    
  
Coach was staring at him, his eyes sparkling with delighted humor, a wide grin teasing his  normally dark features.    
  
Teammates were hoisting him in the air, shouting, yelling, crying, screaming his name.  Crowds cheered, the noise deafening.  
  
He was still basking in the glow three hours later, when he realized the locker room was quiet; the crowd all gone home.  
  
All but him.  
  
And Coach.  
  
Liam Angelus, who’d played in premier leagues all over Europe – who’d played for the Irish National team, replacing Niall Quinn as striker when the other man had been injured, capped 25 times . . .   Was congratulating him.  
  
Treating him like an equal.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
Nothing in his short life had prepared him for this.  
  
 _Nothing._  
  
He’d been the pampered only son of a wealthy, hereditary aristocrat.  And for one brief, shining moment, he’d been a friend, a hero.  
  
 _Now?_  
  
Now he was battered and bruised.  _Used._    
  
William stared at the tears standing out in the blue eyes of the reflection, wondering who they belonged to.  
  
Those had been his eyes.  _Before . . ._   
  
Before Coach had touched him.  
  
His stomach roiled, pitching and heaving like a small boat in a hurricane.  
  
He wanted to vomit.  
  
Wanted to crawl into a hole and never emerge.  
  
No amount of scrubbing would ever make him clean again.  
  
 _Never._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
He promised himself he’d never let it happen again.  
  
He promised her mere hours ago he’d keep her safe.  
  
William stared at the front of the house, willing her to come out.  To take that final step to freedom and . . .  Be safe.  
  
It was quiet.  _Too_ quiet.  
  
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, the skittering over his spine worsening with each heartbeat.  
  
 _Something’s very wrong._  
  
The driveway was clear.   No car was parked there and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling.  Couldn’t convince himself otherwise.  
  
 _Something was very, very wrong._  
  
He eased the car to a stop two doors away, parking it on the corner.  The first streaks of bright sunlight reached upwards into the darkness, heralding the coming day.  It made the chill worse.  
  
 _This isn’t right._  
  
Spike pulled his duster closer.  He checked the block for activity – pulled blinds, lights going on, something to indicate that people were waking up.  Everything was strangely quiet.    
  
Hushed.  
  
Poised.  
  
Waiting. . .  
  
Deciding he didn’t care if anyone saw him, he headed for the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is, as usual with me, song lyrics. This time it’s Natalie Merchant, My Skin from the album Ophelia, released in 1998.


	11. Eleven

**_Eleven_**  
  
 ** _I will not make the same mistakes that you did_**  
 ** _I will not let myself_**  
 ** _Cause my heart so much misery_**  
 ** _I will not break the way you did,_**  
 ** _You fell so hard_**  
 ** _I've learned the hard way_**  
 ** _To never let it get that far_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I never stray too far from the sidewalk_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I learned to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I find it hard to trust not only me, but everyone around me_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I am afraid_**  
 ** _I lose my way_**  
 ** _And it's not too long before you point it out_**  
 ** _I cannot cry_**  
 ** _Because I know that's weakness in your eyes_**  
 ** _I'm forced to fake_**  
 ** _A smile, a laugh everyday of my life_**  
 ** _My heart can't possibly break_**  
 ** _When it wasn't even whole to start with_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I never stray too far from the sidewalk_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I learned to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I find it hard to trust not only me, but everyone around me_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I am afraid_**  
 ** _I watched you die_**  
 ** _I heard you cry every night in your sleep_**  
 ** _I was so young_**  
 ** _You should have known better than to lean on me_**  
 ** _You never thought of anyone else_**  
 ** _You just saw your pain_**  
 ** _And now I cry in the middle of the night_**  
 ** _For the same damn thing_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I never stray too far from the sidewalk_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I learned to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I try my hardest just to forget everything_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I don't know how to let anyone else in_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I'm ashamed of my life because it's empty_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _I am afraid_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
 ** _Because of you_**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
  
He stepped into hell.  
  
 _Oh, fuck, no.  No.  No._  
  
Buffy was on the floor, blood staining a path from the living room to where her body lay, half beneath the kitchen table.  
  
Spike dropped to his knees, searching for a pulse.  “Kitten?  _Oh, fucking hell!_ Buffy?”  
  
 _Breathing._  
  
 _She’s breathing._  
  
He couldn’t leave her here – they’d take her away and he –  
  
“I killed them.”  
  
Sobbing laughter punctuated the statement.  
  
“They’re dead.”  
  
William looked up, over his shoulder.  Liam stood framed in the doorway, blood spatter covering him from head to foot.  
  
More laughter filled the house.  
  
“Dead.”  
          
William had no chance to speak, to move before he was gone.  
  
Cautiously stepping around the blood, Will followed him, stopping in the doorway.  
  
 _Oh, sweet Jesus._  
  
The demon he’d once feared sat quietly sobbing on the floor, his wife’s body cradled in his arms.  
  
 _Sweet bleedin’ Jesus._  
  
A thready breath broke through, pulling his attention away.  
  
Buffy hadn’t moved.  
  
But the infant in her arms had.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Everything she wanted was stuffed into a pillowcase.  
  
Everything she’d risked her life to retrieve.  
  
Will stared at the bedroom walls, his brain racing, his heart numb.    
  
He didn’t remember carrying her from the house.  
  
Didn’t remember driving away.  
  
All he could see – imprinted in his mind – was Angelus covered in blood.  
  
Will wasn’t sure why he’d come here.  Why he’d driven straight to his uncle’s.  
  
Nothing made sense.  
  
He’d laid her down on the bed, the infant cradled in her embrace.  
  
Afraid to check on her, Will slumped to the floor.  
  
 _Don’t die on me, kitten.  Please god, don’t let her die._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Hours, minutes – he never knew how long he’d sat there – Buffy’s voice startled him back to sanity.  
  
“Will?”  
  
 _I’m dreaming._  
  
“Will?”  
  
 _Can’t wake up.  If I wake up, she won’t be here, an’ . . .  An’ I won’t know what to do._  
  
 _I’m dreamin’._  
  
The bed springs groaned and protested softly.  “Will?  Where are we?”  
  
He mumbled something, jumping when she appeared in front of him.  “Where are we?”  
  
He stared up at her, unable to believe she was there.  “M’uncle’s place.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Huh?  ‘M not rightly sure.  Got no place else to go.”  He shrugged, feeling the wall solid against his back.  It finally dawned on him that she wasn’t a dream, that she really was here with him.  “Shouldn’t be up, kitten.  You’re hurt pretty bad.”  
  
“No, I’m not.  Just a bloody lip and some more bruises.”  
  
“You were bleedin’, kitten, saw it.”  
  
He got to his feet, intent on seeing to her.  “Back on the bed.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  Buffy tugged at the edges of the shirt he’d slipped over her head.  
  
“Connor’s bleeding.”  
  
“Saw all the blood, kitten – that’s the mite?”  He gestured to the baby.  
  
“Yeah.  He’s got a nasty cut on his thigh.”  
  
He couldn’t think, couldn’t make sense of what was going on around him.  William stared at her, wild-eyed and haunted.  He’d almost lost her.  
  
The strength seemed to go from him.   His knees wobbled and giving in to the urge, he dropped down to them, laying his head in her lap.    
  
“Bloody hell, sweets, thought you’d – I thought he’d . . .”   
  
A ragged sob rent the air.    
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
  
Buffy sat on the bench, letting William have a moment at his mother’s grave.  Sunlight played hide and seek, dappling the spot where he stood, head bowed.  
  
It was an ornate memorial, all marble and granite.  Columns and angels covering the spot, giving it a very regal air.  
  
She didn’t know what he was doing.  Or why.  
  
He’d muttered something about forgiveness – making peace with his past – so that the future was brighter.    
  
It was sweet.  It was – Buffy wasn’t entirely sure what it was, other than a whole lot of emotions.  
  
He’d even called his uncle.  
  
Unlike Will, there was no one she wanted to forgive.  
  
Liam was dead.    
  
Darla was dead.  
  
She’d never forgive Liam.    
  
 _Darla. . ._   Her sister was a different matter.  Buffy remembered everything from that morning.  Every last detail.  
  
The pain.    
  
The screams.    
  
The sounds of his fists hitting her already broken ribs.  The sound of his hands ripping the blouse from her, the twist of her bra around her neck.  
  
She’d never forget.  
  
The sound of her sister fighting back.  
  
Fighting to protect her.  Giving up her life to save her.  
  
Buffy wouldn’t ever forget.  
  
And she’d _never_ forgive.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 ** _Sunnydale, two years in the past_**  
  
The feeble, hoarse cries disturbed them.  Whimpering made all the more heartbreaking because the small infant knew loud cries brought only pain.    
  
Buffy leaned over, fumbling to raise the baby into her arms, struggling to hold him close.  To offer comfort.   He mewled, shying away when her battered hands clumsily brushed over his own wounds.    
“Will?  Help?”  
  
He’d stirred at the first sounds, his brain sluggishly remembering.  Cautiously tripping through the minefield of memories.  One look at the boy had him cringing.  _Poor mite._  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“I can’t hold him.  He needs to be held.”  
  
Gingerly, he lifted the boy from her awkward hold.  “Shhhhh, little man.  I’ve got you.  Shh.”  
  
He learned in an instant how trusting an infant could be.  Stranger that he was, the baby didn’t hesitate.  To him, the voice was new.  The hands were new.  The feel, the scent, everything about this person was new.  
  
And he didn’t hesitate.  
  
The baby – Connor – laid his head down, splutter cried once, then exhaled on a whispered sigh.  His head rested at the junction of Spike’s neck and shoulder, breath softly caressing his skin.    
  
And for the first time that day, Spike cried.  
  
The tears didn’t stop, even after Buffy curled next to him.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
Time.  
  
It pressed in upon him.  
  
They didn’t have time to sit and regroup.  
  
To see what would happen.  
  
He had to get them away.  
  
He hadn’t planned on the baby.  Hadn’t planned on any of this.  
  
His brain scrambled for a plan, for some way to keep them both.  To keep them both safe.  
  
Angelus was still alive, still breathing.  
  
The monster was still on the loose.  
  
Spike couldn’t waste anymore time.  
  
He had to get them to safety.  
  
 _Safety._  
  
The only safe place he knew.  
  
 _Home._  
  
No change in plan, then.    
  
Spike looked down at the two forms sleeping in his arms.  He wasn’t going to screw this up.    
  
They were depending on him.  
  
 _We’re goin’ home._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
He rarely, if ever, traded on his position.  
  
Didn’t name drop or flash his status.  
  
He never felt the need.  Or wanted to.  
  
Hated attention.  Of any kind.  
  
Didn’t want people – press or otherwise – knowing his business.  
  
But just now, he didn’t give a damn.  
  
Had only one thought.  To get them home, to London, where he could keep them safe.  
  
To do that, he needed to use his name.  
  
Spike looked down at the baby in his arms and made another promise.  
  
 _I’ll keep you safe, little man._  
  
 _I’ll keep you both safe._  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
The cuts weren’t deep.  Only one might need stitches.  
  
Buffy pulled off the soiled diaper and traced the crisscrossed cuts over the thin legs of the baby.  
  
The smeared blood washed away easily.    
  
His scars would fade, with time.  
  
He’d never remember the awful first few months of his life, with any kind of luck.  
  
And for as long as she could, she’d keep the truth from him.  
  
That his father was a monster.  
  
One person who should have protected him, shielded him, taken care of him – had instead been the worst kind of monster.  
  
The kind of monster that haunts.  
  
The kind of monster that deserves to be tortured.  
  
Buffy fumbled with the tags on the clean diapers, her fingers swollen and unwieldy.  Connor didn’t move, just stared up at her with big, teary eyes.  His clothes weren’t any easier – all they had was one  stretchy sleeper, decorated with happy muppets.  
  
“It’s time, pet.  You ready?”  
  
“I can’t get him snapped up.”  Buffy glanced back over her shoulder, noting the grim look in Spike’s eyes.  “I don’t think I can carry him, either.”  
  
“Won’t have to go far, sweets.  Just out to the car.”  His words were clipped, even as he reached to fix the baby’s clothes.  “We need to go.”  
  
“Okay.”  She didn’t question him, didn’t even think to ask.  
  
Not even when they pulled through the gate to the airport.  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
  
 ** _London, present day_**  
  
Connor stirred on the blanket, his little body stretching as he woke from his nap.  
  
He’d changed so much since they’d come here.  
  
The wary, scared, too-thin baby was long gone.  
  
In his place was a laughing, chubby, happy little boy.  One who idolized the man he knew as “Da”.  
  
He copied everything Spike did.  
  
If Spike slouched in his chair, Connor did.  
  
If Spike walked around with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Connor had a pacifier in the same position.  
  
If Spike was out of his sight for too long, Connor panicked.  
  
Buffy wondered if he’d grow out of that.  She wondered if she’d grow out of needing Spike around all the time.  
  
A soft smile played about her mouth.   
  
_Nope.  Can’t ever imagine that._  
  
 _I’ll always need him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is from Kelly Clarkson, and yes, it is autobiographical. She wrote the song way back when she was sixteen, and refined it later, after she’d won that stupid show, with some help from David Hodges and Ben Moody of Evanescence. And truthfully, I believe the lyrics totally fit this story.


	12. The pain of the dream

_**Twelve The pain of the dream**_  
  
 _ **Let go all the tears of your life**_  
 _ **the one you left behind**_  
 _ **Let the pain of the dream go by**_  
 _ **it’s over**_  
 _ **The love is calling**_  
 _ **I’m searching**_  
 _ **You have gone to be free**_  
 _ **The love is calling**_  
 _ **I’m searching**_  
 _ **You have gone to be free**_  
 _ **when the light had gone**_  
 _ **and the night was over**_  
 _ **Yet the feeling will still exist**_  
 _ **For you and me**_  
 _ **Let go all the tears of your life**_  
 _ **The one you left behind**_  
 _ **Let the pain of the dream go by it’s over**_  
 _ **And the feeling still exists**_  
 _ **For you and me**_  
 _ **You have gone to be free**_  
 _ **Let go all the tears of your life**_  
 _ **The one you left behind**_  
 _ **Let the pain of the dream go by it’s over**_  
 _ **Oh, and as you fly past the sign**_  
 _ **That points to our way**_  
 _ **Send your children a whispered song**_  
 _ **Then allow yourself away**_  
 _ **One, two, I am you**_  
 _ **You are but a show**_  
 _ **Three, four, there’s no more**_  
 _ **Your red mouth is aglow**_  
 _ **Five, six, no more tricks**_  
 _ **Now I’m feeling clean**_  
 _ **The secret, yeah, it moved so fast**_  
 _ **Had to dive into mid-stream**_  
 _ **Let go all the tears of your life**_  
 _ **The one you left behind**_  
 _ **Let the pain of the dream go by it’s over**_  
 _ **And the feeling still exists**_  
 _ **For you and me**_  
  
  
  
  
 _ **Sunnydale, two years in the past**_  
  
  
Charles Gunn, newly promoted detective, was on a drug arrest when dispatch contacted him.  
  
“School called in about a student and teacher.”  
  
“Yeah, so?”  Gunn watched as the drugs changed hands.  
  
“You flagged the student’s name.”  
  
 _Oh shit._ He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t force air into his lungs.  _Damn it!_  
  
“Girl’s been out of school three days.”  Gunn felt like he’d been sucker punched.  
  
“Summers, Buffy.  Age 16.”  
  
Gunn put the car in gear, leaving the drug deal behind.  
  
“Have Social Services on standby.”  _Maybe she’s just sick. . ._  
  
Hope warred with fear, as he drove through the quiet streets.  
  
 _Be alive.  Just be alive._  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
  
Hope died as he pushed open the front door.  
  
Blood splatters marred the walls, obscene red splashes covering every surface.  
  
Bloody foot prints trailed across the floor.  
  
A blood soaked baby blanket was crumpled under a table, next to a pacifier.  
  
Gunn choked back his fear, blanking his mind, stepping carefully around the mess.  
  
Fuck.  _Fuck. **Fuck!**_  
  
He peered down a hallway and swallowed hard.  
  
“Dispatch.”  Gunn tried to breathe, tried to calm the racing of his heart.  “Call the Sheriffs.  Get the coroner and a forensics team here.”  
  
“What’s your status?”  
  
“At least one body.”  
  
“Affirmative.  Will send back-up.”  
  
“Yeah.  You do that.”  
  
Gunn slid the radio into his pocket, shaking his head.  
  
 _Don’t be her.  Don’t._  
  
Pleading with God didn’t ease the writhing guilt eating his gut.  
  
He’d known **_something_ ** wasn’t right.  
  
Known it.  
  
And now she’d paid the price of his inaction.  
  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 _So much blood._  
  
Drips at first, then puddles.  Footprints.  
  
Hand prints on the walls.  
  
Gunn braced himself for some . . .  He didn’t want to find her.  
  
Didn’t want to see what had become of her.  
  
The living room was worse.  
  
Broken glass crunched with every footstep.  
  
The blood splatters covered every surface.  Smears covered the walls, a sick, twisted wash over the pale green.  
  
He moved slowly through the room, heading reluctantly for the second floor.  
  
 _If this is how . . . what’s gonna be upstairs?_  
  
 _Should never have let the girl come home. **Knew** there was something up.  Knew it._  
  
Even braced as he as, Gunn was not prepared for the scene as he turned the corner.  
  
Dried blood tracked down the walls of the stairwell.  
  
Blood covered everything.  
  
Especially the two figures perched on the steps.  
  
“Holy shit.”  
  
Gunn could barely breathe.  “ ** _Holy fucking shit!_** ”  
  
Wild brown eyes focused on his.  “I killed her.”  
  
Strange, strangled, grating laughter filled the hallway.  “I killed them.  They’re gone.”  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
What they uncovered in that house was the stuff of nightmares.  
  
Pictures.  
  
Small dolls.    
  
Child-sized uniforms.  
  
Trophies of a sick and twisted mind.  Evidence of crimes long forgotten.  
  
A catalog of evil that had trailed Liam Angelus from Ireland, to Greece, and lastly, Sunnydale.  Stops in between in cities, places Gunn had never heard of.  Places he hadn’t wanted to ever know about.  
  
His bones ached.  His heart _hurt_.  
  
He felt like he’d aged years in the space of hours.    
  
 _This is too much.  Too much.  But where is Buffy?  Where’s the baby?  What happened?_  
  
There was enough evidence to put Angelus away for years, even without his admission of guilt.  
  
Only they didn’t have their bodies.    
  
 _No Buffy.  No baby – Connor._  
  
The District Attorney said it didn’t matter.  Angelus admitted killing them.  He just wouldn’t tell them where their bodies were.  
  
Which was enough to give Gunn hope that maybe, just _maybe_. . .   
  
Because William Pratt had disappeared at the same time Buffy had.  
  
Gunn decided, as he watched them load Angelus into the van, that he’d hold onto his hope, his suspicion and not say a word.  Not to anyone.  
  
Because he had to have a little bit of hope.    
  
She had to still be alive.  
  
She _had_ to be.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
 _ **Between Sunnydale and London, two years ago**_  
  
  
He didn’t breathe easily until they were airborne.  
  
Until they were clear of U.S. airspace and over Canada.  
  
Until he was able to look at Buffy and see for himself how damaged she was.  
  
How bruised.  
  
How battered.  
  
William wanted to hide.  To hold the covers over his head and pretend none of this was happening.  
  
Spike, the creature who’d risen from his darkest hour, wanted blood.  
  
The blood of Angelus.  His tormenter.  Her abuser.  
  
The demon that had destroyed them both.  
  
Will brushed strands of burnished blond hair away from her face.    
  
She was sleeping – as was the infant.  
  
He didn’t know what to do.   They had no one else.  Nowhere else to go.  He didn’t want to let her – _them_ – go anywhere else.  
  
He had to save her.  
  
He had to.  
  
Because if he saved her, he might someday manage to save himself.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
  
Halfway home, somewhere over the Atlantic, Will decided against flying straight into London.  
  
Too many prying eyes.  
  
Though he wasn’t the normal target for the paparazzi, he knew there were always vultures at the airport, waiting for anyone famous or notorious to step off a plane.  
  
 _So no._  
  
London was too exposed.  
  
Instead, they landed at a smaller airport, almost two hours from London.  
  
It was closer to home, anyway.  
  
His _childhood_ home.  
  
A sigh escaped him, barely disturbing his companions.  
  
Maybe he just wasn’t ready for London.  
  
It would be safer for all of them to stay out of the capital.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
His name still carried some weight, at least in this small part of the world.  
  
One quick phone call and everything was arranged.  
  
A car, with a driver, would be waiting for them when they arrived.  
  
His childhood doctor would be waiting at the house.  
  
Mrs. Patterson, the cook, and her husband would make sure everything was prepared and ready.  
  
The plane banked for landing, the steep turn waking both his companions.  
  
“Will?”  Her voice was thick and groggy, her eyes barely open.  “Where are we?”  
  
“Almost home, kitten.”  _Almost home. . ._   
  
“Where’s that?”    
  
The baby stretched, whimpering in pain.  
  
“England.  Where I grew up.”  
  
It was a measure of how battered she was when she didn’t question him.    
  
Buffy didn’t even glance out the window.  Instead she reached for the infant, cradling him in her arms.  
  
“He’s hungry.”  
  
“We’ll be landing in a bit.  I’ll have the driver get supplies.”  
  
It was done.  They were safe.  
  
 _For now. . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is a song – Dream Gone By – by Peter Murphy (he of Bauhaus fame) written by Mr. Murphy and Paul Statham, from the CD Holy Smoke (released in 1992)


	13. Epilogue

_**I just want to feel safe in my own skin,**_  
 _ **I just want to be happy again**_  
 _ **I just want to feel deep in my own world**_  
 _ **But I'm so lonely**_  
 _ **I don't even want to be with myself anymore**_  
 _ **On a different day,**_  
 _ **if I was safe in my own skin,**_  
 _ **then I wouldn't feel lost and**_  
 _ **so frightened**_  
 _ **But this is today and I'm lost in my own skin**_  
 _ **And I'm so lonely**_  
 _ **I don't even want to be with myself anymore**_  
 _ **I just want to feel safe in my own skin,**_  
 _ **I just want to be happy again.**_  
  
  
  
  
 _ **London, present day**_  
  
For nearly two years they lived in Kent.  Hiding from the world, all of them healing and learning to live again.  
  
Not so oddly, the baby was the first to recover.  
  
But through him, they both did.  
  
Spike learned how to love, how to trust . . .  How to be vulnerable and just how strong he could be.  
  
Buffy learned to trust and how to forgive.  
  
Together, they learned how to fall in love.  
  
To touch without pain, without anger. . . to love.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
Neither of them saw the photographer.  
  
They had picked a lovely, sunny day to visit his mother’s grave.  
  
Warm weather brought everyone outdoors.  It seemed like all of London was out and about; people were everywhere.  
  
In the destructive years after his first flight from Sunnydale, Will had gone down a dark, dangerous path.  
  
Alcohol.  
  
Drugs.  
  
Partying until dawn.  For days.   
  
He’d partied with the infamous, his name and title drawing unwelcome attention.  For a while, he’d been the fodder for tabloids.  
  
And then, his mother died, leaving him alone with his demons.  
  
Weeks after she was gone, he’d checked himself into rehab and changed his life.  
  
The only remnants were his preference for black clothing and bleached hair.    
  
And _Spike_.  
  
He’d disappeared from the public eye, living anonymously between Kent and New York.  
  
Until his therapist sent him on a quest to make peace with his past.  
  
He’d done so –    
  
And found his future.  
  
      
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
  
It had been a wonderful day.  Even with the angst of visiting his mother’s grave, Will wouldn’t have traded the day for a host of others.  
  
Even when Connor had been fretting and whiny because his nap was delayed, it had been good.  
  
So good that he wasn’t as vigilant as he should have been.  
  
Will stared at the grainy photos, unable to truly comprehend what he was looking at.  The caption barely fazed him – it was the pictures drawing his disbelief.  
  
Six years he’d been out of the spotlight.  _How had they even found me?_  
  
 _Why were they still interested?_  
  
Buffy looked up from the blanket spread out on the grass, eyes shaded from the unusual bright sunshine.  “Whatcha got there?”  
  
He sighed, knowing he couldn’t keep this from her.  “Newspaper, kitten.”  
  
“Yeah?  What’s so interesting?”    
  
Without speaking Will held it out to her, not hiding the picture.  
  
“It’s not a bad picture.”  Buffy scrunched her nose, perusing the photo critically.  “At least we’re both smiling.”  
  
She knew he wasn’t entirely thrilled with the clipping.  Displeasure was rolling off him in waves.

   
Before he could say something scathing, she held up a hand.  “You knew – we talked about it, right? So why make with the grouchies?”  
  
Will stared at her for long moments, getting lost in the sunlight playing in the golden lights of her hair and eyes, forgetting why he was slightly aggravated.    
  
“I’m old enough now.  They can’t really do anything, can they?”    
  
She had such trust in him.  Will didn’t want to say or do anything to change that.  Not now.  Not ever.  “Not sure, pet.  There’s still the boy.”  
  
“But I’m his only living relative.  Why would they take him away?”  
  
 _Why would they?  Would they?  Or would they leave us be, deciding we’ve both been through enough._  
  
 _Would they?_  
  
Will was going to bet their future on it.    
  
Perhaps it was time to emerge from the shadows.  
  
  
  
@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@  
  
  
 _ **Sunnydale, present day**_  
  
For a normally intelligent woman, his girlfriend transformed into another person whenever there was new, juicy gossip.  Especially of the obscure kind.  She knew more about the lives of the two English princes than any ten American women.  
  
But Gunn loved her.  So he just watched when she indulged in reading imported newspapers.  And he mostly ignored her.  Let her do her thing.  
  
Tonight, though, she was running later than usual.  So he was stuck, waiting for her.    
  
There was nothing on the television.  Needing something to do with his hands and time, Gunn grabbed the first newspaper on the table.  
  
Seemed like any other paper, rife with news – some good, but most of it bad.  He never really paid attention to the gossip pages, so he thumbed over them.    
  
Until a picture caught his eye.  
  
He read the caption under the photo.  
  
 _Reclusive lord finally emerges from his self-imposed exile with new family in tow.  No wonder the Earl of Camden has been hiding for the past two years – his lovely and oh-so very young WAG – and their bouncing baby boy.  Looks like she might be sporting a new bump.  Who is she though?  No one seems to know.  And anyone that does isn’t talking.  Not even the Earl._  
  
Gunn would’ve recognized that shock of white-blond hair anywhere.    
  
The words finally registered. _Two years? **Two** years. _ Gunn looked at the picture again, this time really looking.  
  
 _Shit.  Holy shit._  
  
She was there, with him.  Smiling up at him.  There was no mistaking the love in her eyes, nor the expression on his face.  Gunn dragged his eyes away from their images to look at the toddler.  Hard to tell from this angle, but he had every reason to believe it was the baby, only a bit older.  
  
A smile broke out on his face, and try as he might, he couldn’t wipe it away.  
  
She made it.  She was safe.  
  
She was _alive_ and _safe_.  
  
Gunn laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N: I hadn’t really intended to write an epilogue for this story, but really, I suppose it makes perfect sense. Because really, the story isn’t all dark, and throughout there were glimmers of hope, brief shining moments when all didn’t bode ill. I am truly grateful to those of you with the courage to continue with this story, to read despite the harsh reality it represented. The truth is, and I’ve said it before, this was difficult for me to write. Parts of it hurt physically. Most of it left me in tears as I wrote. It remains the most intensely personal – despite my use of Spike and Buffy as the main characters – piece I’ve ever written, aside from a few poems. And while I didn’t suffer nearly the way either of the characters did, I did suffer. It is possible to survive what happened. It isn’t always pretty, and it isn’t always easy, but it is possible. I only wish that no one else had to learn how to survive. That no one else has to . . . Because I think it’s fitting, in a way, to end this story as it began, the song quote is the same as the first chapter (Dido). One small other note, since I’m not sure anyone but those readers in England will get this reference – WAG is a British tabloid term for Wives And Girlfriends (usually in connection with the male celebrities from footie stars to actors).]


End file.
